THE DARK LORD'S DAUGHTER, Or, the Corruption of Hermione Granger
by Amandah Leigh
Summary: In 1979 Bellatrix gave birth to a baby girl on the floor of her Azkaban cell. She was told the baby died. 17yrs later, Hermione is abducted during a skirmish in the Dept. of Mysteries. She is taken to Malfoy Manor to be questioned and killed, but Bella, spotting a unique birth mark she will never forget, sobs to the Dark Lord: "Please, Master, you cannot kill your own daughter!"
1. PROLOGUE: 1979

**THE DARK LORD'S DAUGHTER**

 **Or, the Corruption of Hermione Granger**

17 years ago, Bellatrix Lestrange gave birth to a baby girl on the floor of her cell in Azkaban. Shortly thereafter, she was told the baby didn't make it. It ignited in her grief she'll never get over.

Three months ago, Hermione Granger was abducted during a skirmish in the Department of Mysteries that left Sirius Black dead and Harry Potter emotionally destroyed. She was taken back to Malfoy Manor to be questioned and, most probably, killed, but when Bellatrix realizes there's something familiar about her, she convinces the Dark Lord to spare the girl.

"Please, Master," she said, down on her knees, tears in her eyes. "Please, Master. You cannot kill your own daughter!"

In THE DARK LORD'S DAUGHTER, or, the Corruption of Hermione Granger, Bellatrix is determined to turn her long-lost daughter into the person she was always meant to be, but after a lifetime with a loving Muggle family and as the best friend of Harry Potter, could it already be too late?

Rated: M

Trigger Warning: violence, death, sex, general adult content

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **September 1979**

 **(17 years ago)**

She labored for hours.

Quietly.

As close to silently as she could manage.

It took all of her mental might to remain not only conscious, but in control. It would not do to fall apart now. Not when the task at hand was so critical. She refused to break down. She refused to cry. Above all else, she refused to beg for help.

It was not easy. Giving birth in shackles, in a rundown prison in the middle of a sea, surrounded by those soul-sucking thieves of joy, starving, cold. There was a window in her cell, one with bars, overlooking the grounds. They'd selected this one for her on purpose, to torment her. To let her see where she'd never again go: outside.

Those who knew her secret had done so well to keep her hidden. Months she was under house-arrest in Malfoy Manor, the home of her newlywed sister. Their parents knew where she was, of course, as did her in-laws, and the Dark Lord had been the one to place her there, but aside from the immediate Black and Malfoy families and their leader, it was kept completely confidential.

As was her condition.

"Pregnant?" Her mother had been delighted... at first. "A grandchild! You've reconciled? Is Rodolphus excited? I thought the two of you were..."

She didn't want to say it. Estranged. Separated. Not speaking.

"But I am happy for you both!" Mother had finished.

"It isn't his," Bella had whispered, uncharacteristically ashamed of herself. She knew her mother's eyes would show disgust and disappointment and so she avoided them, staring intently down at the ornate Oriental rug instead. They were seated in the parlor of their country house, where Bella had been living since the dissolution of her marriage.

Her husband, though he would never divorce her for it, was unhappy about her acceptance into the Dark Lord's inner circle.

And more upset about her acceptance into the Dark Lord's bed.

"It's not...?" her mother started, but she broke off with a shudder. It was too horrible to consider. While her parents, Cygnus and Druella, were staunch, longtime supports of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, to think of their daughter, their eldest, their beautiful, brilliant, young-

"It is."

"Oh, Bella."

To her surprise - and to her emotional destruction - her mother wrapped her in a hug, holding her head to her chest, her ear to her heartbeat the way she had when Bella was small. The twenty-seven-year-old began to cry as she hadn't in over a decade, great wracking sobs that shook her shoulder and exercised her core. The tears were hot and salty and they stung and she choked a little, and through it her mother rocked her and held her and waited until she could speak again.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"Has he hurt you?" Druella stroked her daughter's thick, wild hair, and fought back tears. No sense in both of them crying. "The Dark Lord. Did he force you?"

"No. He... he _values_ me. As his soldier."

"As his whore."

"Are you disgusted by me, Mother?" Bellatrix fought to meet her mother's eye. She had never been a weak person, the type to seek reassurance or approval. She'd been an academic overachiever in school but badly behaved, breaking rules as she saw fit, and occasionally disrespecting authority simply to remind them she could. She came from wealth and privilege and she exercised both, unwilling to be treated like the Mudbloods and blood traitors and poverty stricken peons who surrounded her in the castle. She didn't care what anyone thought of her because she thought quite highly of herself, and that was what mattered. But she loved no one more than her mother (save, perhaps, for HIM) and it wounded her deeply to think she might have lost the respect and adoration of the woman who bore her.

"I want only the best for you, my Bella." Her mother had kissed her temple and cradled her face and forced eye contact. "Please, please tell me he doesn't hurt you."

"He doesn't hurt me," lied Bellatrix, an Occlumens. "He says I am his most loyal, devout, and faithful follower." That part was true, as were her next words. "He said he thought he was both above and beyond needing a woman in a... in a carnal way... before... before me." Her cheeks flushed. "Mother? He says I'm special. Different. He tells me I'm his. I belong to him."

Her mother inhaled deeply, her eyes closed, processing this. "Does he know of this baby?"

"He does."

"And he... he wants you to keep it?"

"No." Bellatrix bowed her head, letting the mix of tangles and ringlets fall across her face, curtaining her from her mother. "But I begged him to let me keep it. I promised to raise it in service to him. I vowed it would not lessen my contributions as a solider, that it would only make me more devoted, that it would be an inspiration to serve him more fully and not a distraction. I also had to swear I'd never tell a soul - save for you - that the child is his. And no one outside the immediate family is to know I'm expecting. He will ensure secrecy from Rodolphus by way of the Unbreakable Vow, and he expects the same of you and Daddy and Cissy."

"You can trust us." Her mother cradled her face. "For how long have you been his... mistress?"

"Longer than I'd care for you to know." Bellatrix pulled away and wiped her eyes and cheeks with her sleeves. "Do you still love me?"

"Of course, my Bella. Nothing you could ever do would stop me from loving you."

But Bellatrix knew that wasn't true.

Mother and Daddy had stopped loving Andromeda after she ran off to marry that Muggleborn. They were deeply ashamed of her decision and made it abundantly clear to anyone who dare to enquire about the middle Black daughter that she had been disowned and they were subsequently moving on with life as if she'd never existed. Andromeda had had a child, a girl, by that Muggleborn, and though her parents read about its birth in the Prophet, they made no mention of their first grandchild. Now Bella would be having one by Lord Voldemort.

That was months ago.

Before the raid on Malfoy Manor.

Before her arrest.

She couldn't apparate away, couldn't fight - not well, in any case. She could hardly move. She was huge, swollen with child, and sick - it had been a difficult pregnancy - when Aurors descended upon the property of Abraxas and Claudia Malfoy, the home they shared with their only son, Lucius, their daughter-in-law, Narcissa, and their daughter, Aurora, age twelve. It was also the temporary home of Bellatix and the current headquarters of the Dark Lord, who was, most unfortunately, away when it happened.

Aurors took both Abraxas and Bellatrix into custody, but as they had nothing of substance on the patriarch, he was released shortly thereafter. Bella, on the other hand, was held pending trial. The fact that she'd been arrested was public knowledge. Her condition was not.

"Don't want people feeling sympathy for you, now do we?" goaded the Azkaban guard on night duty. He loved to tease Bella through the bars, knowing there was nothing she could do to retaliate. The difficult pregnancy only worsened with her new situation. Prior to the arrest, she'd nearly lost the baby once and had been on bed rest ever since. Post-arrest, she was just as bedridden, but also denied the good food and basic comforts she'd had at home. Here, if she cried, no one cared.

Her one saving grace was that her wand had been turned over to her next of kin, her mother, as it would have killed her to learn it had been destroyed. Thankfully, even when you're accused of torture, galleons talk.

The first week, she hadn't lamented her situation... much. She was confident the Dark Lord would return from his mysterious trip and break her out and kill both the Aurors who arrested her and the guard who tormented her each night.

But he didn't come.

And so she spent the last month of her pregnancy imprisoned and went into labor a little earlier than she thought she would.

"Breathe, Bella," she whispered to herself. "Breathe. Breathe." She knew little of what to expect, except that there would be pain. She remembered being in the room when her mother birthed Narcissa. She'd held Mummy's hand while the midwife did all the work. But that was a long time ago.

Bellatrix struggled out of her knickers, dingy under the prison-issued gray and white striped cotton gown. She couldn't get them completely off without tearing the fabric on account of the leg shackles, so tearing the fabric is what she did. Her wrists were bound to each other, too, and a chain from the cuffs went to the one connecting her ankles. She tried to find a comfortable position but there wasn't one. And fuck, it hurt. More than the Cruciatus, it hurt. More than facing the wrath of her lover and Lord, it hurt.

But she managed. She bore down. She pushed. She tried not to scream, but in that place, what was one more anguished wail reverberating off the stone walls?

She felt the head slip out and fought to expel the rest. She cut the cord with the sharpened rock that broke off the windowsill weeks ago, the one she'd been using to carve ticks in the wall to keep track of the days, though to say "cut" the cord wasn't exactly accurate. She hacked away at it until it was severed. She flipped the baby and patted her back until she coughed and cried, though baby didn't cry long. She opened her eyes and stared curiously up at Bella. Could she see her mother? Did she know who she was looking at?

She.

It was a girl.

She was lovely, the loveliest baby ever to live, though Bella objectively knew she was also imperfect.

She had a birthmark that stretched from her back down her leg, a purple, jagged-edged one, perhaps a port wine stain. It was raised but not hot or rough or overly tender to the touch, merely discolored.

"Your witch's mark," said Bella, her voice hoarse even though she'd hardly screamed. "It's beautiful. You are everything I didn't know I wanted."

She did her best to clean off the fluids, wiping the baby's face and neck with her gown. She kissed her bloody, goopy head, and looked over every inch of her, counting fingers and toes, even checking her gums for teeth because she'd heard some babies are born with them. This one was not.

The baby's nose was small and button-like and her eyes were wide. She looked alert. Was that normal? Her head was covered with dark hair and her face had a bit of peach fuzz, soft and temporary, and there were a few little pink spots on her cheeks. Popped blood vessels, maybe? Her cheeks were soft, her fingers delicate. Bella lightly pinched her tiny thigh and kissed her forehead. She held her, rocking, whispering the only lullaby she knew.

 _Hush little pureblood_

 _Don't say a word_

 _Mummy's gonna buy you a thunderbird_

 _And if that thunderbird won't storm_

 _Mummy's gonna catch you a flobberworm_

 _And if that flobberworm's too drab_

 _Mummy's gonna give you a fire crab..._

Around verse eight, _"And if that hippogriff shows scorn, Mummy's gonna find you a unicorn,"_ the baby started to cry again. Instinct told her to bring her daughter to her breast, to nurse her. Cradling her was near-impossible with her wrists bound by the chain but somehow, she managed.

And though the circumstances were anything but idyllic, she fell in love while feeding her daughter, and in that moment she'd never felt happier.

But the joy was short-lived.

The night guard came on. He intended to taunt her, as usual.

He saw the baby.

He took the baby away.

Literally tore the baby from her arms, locking her in the thigh when she refused to relinquish her, laughing all the while. She shouted threats and pleas for what felt like hours, and finally he returned, no baby in his arms.

"I _am_ sorry, Mrs. Lestrange," he said, sounding not at all sorry. "During the examination, the baby stopped breathing. She's dead."

"What?" Bellatrix's heart constricted in her chest. It stopped beating. It broke.

"We'll bury her here, on the grounds, same as any other prisoner."

"No!"

"You may even be able to see her plot from your window."

"NO!"

"It happens." He was smiling. "People are born, and they die. No one is immortal. Nothing is forever."

"My baby?"

"But the good news is, once you've stopped bleeding..." He glanced disdainfully down at the rust-colored stain on the floor. "You'll be fit to stand trial."

"Please, let me see her! Let me see my baby's body. I've never begged for anything, but you have to-"

"I don't have to do anything for you." His smile grew to a full-on grin. "Goodnight, Mrs. Lestrange."

Three days later, the Dark Lord himself made an appearance at the Ministry for Magic, where he killed four Aurors, wrapped his arm around the waist of the woman being interrogated on the dais, and apparated away before a single member of the Wizengamot managed to draw their wand.


	2. THE PRESENT AND THE PAST

**CHAPTER ONE:**

 **THE PRESENT AND THE PAST**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Hermione Granger awoke in the cellar dungeon of Malfoy Manor, as she had every morning for the last three months.

This morning, however, was not quite like other mornings.

This morning, it was her birthday.

She opened her eyes and focused her gaze on the stone ceiling above. She could feel someone staring at her, which made the hair on her arms stand on end. She did not move, scarcely breathed, and fought the urge to shiver, hoping it was HER and not HIM.

"Good, you're awake!"

It was HER.

"Come now, sit up, I've been waiting hours for you to open your eyes!" The woman plopped down on the edge of her bed and patted her arm. Her heavy-lidded eyes were bright and shiny with excitement. Her wild black hair was gathered in a ponytail, an oddly casual look for her. She was still in her nightdress. "Look alive, love! You have presents!"

Hermione pulled herself into a seated position. She glanced around her cell. Over these last three months, it had gone from looking like a prison to looking damn near homey. Had there not been bars in place of a fourth wall and an enchanted window in place of a real one, it could almost pass for a real bedroom. Her cot had been replaced by a twin bed, her chamber pot by an attached loo with running water, and the crate on which she'd kept her meagre possessions was now a tall antique wooden wardrobe with double doors and several drawers.

They were trusting her, a little more each day. The more they trusted her, the less she trusted herself.

She was losing herself.

"Smile, Hermione!" the woman commanded, hugging her around the shoulders. "I've wanted to celebrate your birthday with you since... since…" Her voice cracked and the end of the sentence died. Hermione wondered if she might cry. She'd seen the woman cry only twice thus far, but often felt she was on the verge. It was... unnerving. All things considered.

The woman placed several wrapped packages on Hermione's lap. She tapped the biggest, in shimmery gold paper with a silver bow. "That's from me. Open it first."

Hermione's hands were steadier than she might have expected as she pulled back the paper, wondering whether she'd like what was inside. This wasn't the way her birthday was supposed to be. She was seventeen today, of age. An adult in the wizarding world. She should be celebrating with Harry and Ron, and maybe Ginny and Neville and Luna, perhaps with bottles of butterbeer and Chocolate Frogs. She might have been reading a letter from her proud parents, Muggle dentists, and would certainly have been attending classes as usual. She felt a pang in her chest, literal heartache, over her current predicament, for as well as she was being treated these days, she'd give almost anything for her old life back.

"Don't be sad, love." The woman stroked Hermione's tangled hair and kissed her temple. "If you want butterbeer and Chocolate Frogs, I'll send a house-elf for butterbeer and Chocolate Frogs."

The woman was a Legilimens.

Hermione had only learned about Legilimency over the last school year, when Harry was learning Occlumency from Professor Snape. Hermione knew nothing of the practical use of Occlumency, but tried to remember to think positive thoughts whenever the woman was around. It was the best way to avoid disappointing her, and, more importantly, of avoiding the wrath of HIM.

"Open it, open it!" prompted the woman, her wild eyes regarding Hermione with impatience. With one long fingernail, painted dark purple, she tapped the box. Hermione lifted the top off and pulled out her present.

It was a dress.

A gown, really.

Ornate and beautiful, glimmering silver. It had thin straps, a fitted bodice, and a little flare in the skirt, with diamond chips along the scooped neckline. It caught the dim light of a candle in one of the wall sconces and shimmered pink and purple. Was this fabric somehow enchanted? Made with magic threads? Hermione had never seen anything like it.

"Sacred Salazar!" Hermione breathed, borrowing a phrase she'd only ever heard from the lips of the woman without recognizing it had become part of her daily diction, too. "It's stunning!"

"I know!" The woman jumped up, clasping her hands together. She looked much less fearsome like this, when smiling with both her lips and eyes, despite the bad lighting casting shadows across her face and the bars providing a backdrop. Hermione thought she must have been breathtaking when she was younger, before Azkaban. Now she was too thin, emaciated almost, and that made her deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes look much too large. She was pale, too pale, and some of her teeth were broken, but she maintained a certain haughtiness and an air of dignity that made it easy for Hermione to envision her as a young woman, with perfect bone structure, clear skin, a trim but curved figure... a classic beauty.

"My two front teeth were much too large when I was little," the woman told her once, months ago, while examining her closely. "They stuck out and I hated them. Mother and Daddy took me to a sorceress who specialized in Glamours and permanent fixes for aesthetic issues to have them fixed before I left for Hogwarts. They were worried I'd be teased. But you, you have nice teeth. Straight. The right size."

"Madam Pomfrey fixed them for me," Hermione had confessed. "They used to be too large... and they stuck out. The front ones, I mean."

That came as quite a thrill for the woman, who rejoiced over their every similarity, no matter how small.

"You'll wear the gown tonight, for dinner!" The woman grinned down at Hermione, her eyes glistening. "You're of age! It's an exciting day in the life of a young witch. When I turned seventeen, my parents hosted a magnificent gala, and HE came, the Dark Lord. It was the night we met. I loved him from first sight."

"Oh?" Hermione tried to picture the woman at seventeen, falling for a monster of a man with red-slitted eyes, no defined nose, and long, tapered fingers, dingy nails, hairless, terrifying…

"He was handsome, then," said the woman wistfully, presumably reading her mind again. "If I only had a photograph… or a Pensieve… I could show you. He had eyes and hair the same color as yours, and he could tan in the summer, as you do. I go from white to red, but he…" She took Hermione's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "He is not a monster."

"I'm sorry," whispered Hermione. "You know he frightens me."

The woman opened her mouth and began to speak, but hesitated, ended eye contact, and forced on a smile. "This evening, we're having a formal meal in the dining room. Dancing may follow. It's been such a long time since we last… I've been in Azkaban, remember? Until January. I haven't attended a ball or dinner party since 1979, and I could not enjoy it then. I'd just learned I was expecting, thus I had to abstain from alcohol, and I attended alone because my husband…" She cleared her throat. "No matter. Regarding tonight, we will dine with my sister, her sister-in-law, my father, Snape, a few select invited guests..." With a bit of nervousness creeping into her voice, she added, "And the Dark Lord will be present. You must therefore be on your best behavior. Remember last time?"

Hermione winced and rubbed at the burn scar on her forearm. She did indeed remember last time. She'd been permitted out of this dungeon only once since her arrival. It hadn't gone well, to put it mildly.

"Let's put these other gifts aside for now." With a wave of her wand, they disappeared from Hermione's lap and reappeared on a small round table in the corner. That table was new. "Breakfast?" Without awaiting an answer, she snapped her fingers for a house-elf.

Hermione, despite her difficulties with the free labor of house-elves, was hungry and had learned she didn't eat if she didn't allow them to feed her, gave her order. The woman did the same.

"I want the Dark Lord to be impressed by you this evening, Hermione. I need him to see you as I do." The woman returned to her spot on the edge of the bed. She stroked Hermione's hair. "If he believes you're still loyal to that Muggle-loving old fool Dumbledore, he'll sooner kill you than let you leave this cell again. We can't have that, now, can we, my lovely little pureblood princess?"

Hermione shook her head. She would be on her best behavior, she wasn't stupid. But she also wasn't sure she'd ever get used to being called the woman's 'lovely little pureblood princess.' She'd spent too many years as 'the Mudblood.' And before that, a Muggle - a Muggle who'd never even imagined that magic could be real.

"That's a good girl," said the woman, sounding relieved. "We only want what's best for you, after all. While we wait for our food, how about another present?" She summoned one over. "This is from your Auntie Narcissa..."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **18 June, 1996**

 **(three months ago)**

 _"Yes... yes... oh... oh... yes... please..."_

Since his 'reincarnation' and her release from prison, she and the Dark Lord had engaged in much less sex than she'd been accustomed to prior to his fall, and if she was being honest, he wasn't as good as he'd been before either. But she loved every moment they were together nonetheless.

She had her left arm bent up above her head, flat on the mattress, and his right hand clutched her wrist, keeping it there. Her other hand was on his hip, encouraging him, as her pelvis lifted to meet him thrust-for-thrust. Her hair was spread out below her head and to the sides, like a black pillow that smelled of coconut, her nipples were taut and aching for his attention, and her eyelids fluttered involuntarily as he hit a certain spot inside her that nearly put her over the edge.

"Tonight," he hissed into her ear. "Tonight, we get the Prophecy."

"Yes… yes, my Lord… _ohh… ohhhh…"_ She was close, so close. She needed him to keep at it right there, right at this angle, but to her disappointment he shifted slightly, lifting his body further off hers. Not that she was complaining. She'd take what she could get. They'd been together in this way only five times in the six months since her escape from Azkaban, twice of which had been on that first night of freedom when he was celebrating having liberated ten of his top followers, thus she savored each and every time.

He had always been a somewhat selfish lover, but even more so since their post-prison reunion. He didn't kiss her lips before or hold her afterward anymore, nor did he whisper in her ear all the reasons she was perfect for him, and only once had he made any attempt to bring her pleasure orally. But she reminded herself that he was a different person now… hardly a person at all, it seemed. He was more of an entity now, a god, so far above and beyond anything she could ever be it was almost difficult to remember that he'd once been a young, handsome, virile man, with a little gray at his temples and eyes that smiled when pleased, a man who'd let her drift off to sleep with her head on his chest, a man who'd relish in bringing her to orgasm multiple times before he did, as he once saw his ability to do so as a source of pride.

This change did not dim her love for him, nor did it make her want to please him any less than she ever had, and so she made it clear she was available to him whenever he demanded, even though she fell asleep in a cold bed beside her husband most nights feeling unfulfilled and woefully alone.

"When Potter is dead, I'll take the Ministry." He pumped harder, spurred on by the notion of ruling over all, of eliminating that dreadful boy whose continued existence served only to humiliate him. "He will hand it to you, Bella."

"Yes… yes, my Lord…" They'd been through the plan numerous times. She and a contingency of other top Death Eaters would be waiting in the Department of Mysteries for Potter to come and retrieve the Prophecy with his name on it. They would demand he hand it over and he would, because surely he wasn't so stupid as to deny them. They wouldn't kill him – that was an order – but she was granted special permission to have a little fun with him should he give them any trouble, so long as no harm came to the glass orb in which the Prophecy was contained. She was to hold onto it – her, and no one else, not Malfoy, not Dolohov, just her – and she would keep it safe until she handed it to him.

She reached a hand between them, playing with the slick nub between her lips, desperate to bring herself to orgasm as it was clear he wouldn't be doing so. He was… distracted. His mind was entirely on the task at hand, and she was aware he was only fucking her because he needed the release; had another women been available in the middle of the night at Malfoy Manor, he'd likely be contentedly buried in her instead. But since his options were a willing and familiar Bellatrix versus veritable ice princess (and occasional emotional basket-case) Narcissa, it made sense he sent for the mistress he'd taken to bed countless times before.

Unexpectedly, he released her wrist and grabbed for the back of her thigh, bringing her leg up until her knee was brushing against the outside of her left breast, causing an aching twinge in her hip. Though she was thin, she was out of shape, having spent fourteen years steadily starving and forgoing physical activity of any kind. She moaned from the pain, which he mistook for pleasure.

"Yes, Bella," he hissed, thrusting harder, digging his sharp nails into her flesh, hurting her. "You like this, don't you?"

"Yes, my Lord," she answered obediently.

"You'll get me that Prophecy, won't you?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Yes… yes, you will. And then, we'll kill him. We'll kill Potter!" Two more jerks and he spilled himself into her, then abruptly pulled out and rolled off. She hadn't finished. He didn't seem to care… or notice.

"You may go."

"My Lord?" She was still on her back, breathing hard, with sweat beaded on her forehead and a sore spot on the side of her neck, right over her Azkaban number tattoo, where he'd bitten her.

"I've finished with you."

She blinked back tears. "With all due respect, my Lord, you used to let me… stay. Remember?"

"That was before."

She nodded and extricated herself from the bed, looking around for her nightdress, which he'd torn off and tossed aside. She did not bother with trying to retrieve her knickers, as he'd ripped them too and she was rubbish with clothing repair spells. Her dressing gown was on the floor in front of the door with the slippers she'd borrowed from Narcissa. Most of her clothing was borrowed from Narcissa, thus it was ill-fitting and not to her taste. She hadn't been permitted out shopping, obviously, since her escape, and she had no desire to ever wear her prison garb again, so she wore whatever she was given without much complaint. She did have one dress, though, that she liked – the one she'd been wearing when arrested, which had been returned to her next-of-kin along with her wand and a few other personal artifacts. Narcissa had kept her confiscated property in a box all these years, and though she needed the corset tied tighter now than she had in 1981, she liked the way it fit on her. She would wear it tonight, to the Ministry, for her first mission in over fourteen years. She was looking forward to it.

She was looking forward to pleasing the Dark Lord.

She wanted back in his good graces. She wanted what they'd had before.

She wanted him to let her stay the night.

"Goodnight, Bellatrix," he said. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, the blanket pulled up to mid-chest, looking more at peace than she'd seen him since January. He waved a hand dismissively.

She nodded even though he couldn't see her.

"Yes, my Lord. Goodnight."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you so, so very much to everyone who decided to follow this fic, add it to favorites, and/or left a review! The response was overwhelming and I can't say how much I appreciate it. To answer a couple of Qs from either here or the FB page, but skip if you don't want to know. (No major spoilers.)

Yes, this will be a Snape/Hermione fic, but not yet as these things take time. It is also a Bellatrix/Voldemort fic with lemons (actual ones, not like the above) ahead. The primary focus is on Bellatrix and Hermione, though - their relationship as mother/daughter, and their respective relationships so most scenes will follow them and their points of view.

I will do my best to keep characters in-character and also to keep close to canon, though obviously it goes AU from the end of the Department of Mysteries excursion on. So expect Hermione to change, becoming darker over time, but not to become a totally AU version of the character (she's still Hermione). Same with Bellatrix, Voldemort, Snape, and the Malfoys. I always keep as in-character as I can considering the plot, and not try to make any deviations without reason.

Thank you! As I said, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the response (happily!) and I hope not to disappoint. Thanks for reading!

 **-AL**


	3. THE WITCH'S MARK

**CHAPTER TWO:**

 **THE WITCH'S MARK**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

The dress looked even more stunning on her body than it had fresh out of the box.

It was as if it had been designed specifically for her, hugging every contour of her form, highlighting curves she didn't even think she had yet. Not that it changed her shape – she was still the same Hermione, with slim hips, small bust, and a decent arse – but it made her look beautiful in a grownup way she'd never before seen herself, not even for the Yule Ball. She twirled in front of the full-length mirror, another birthday present, and examined herself from every angle. She was smiling demurely at her reflection over one shoulder when SHE made her presence known. The woman.

"Breathtaking."

Hermione froze. She wasn't sure it was a good thing, letting the woman see her preen like this, making it obvious that she liked the dress, making it seem that she liked her circumstances… but she also didn't mind being "breathtaking."

"To answer the question you didn't ask aloud, yes, I had it designed especially for you," the woman said. "I wish I had a Pensieve. I wish I could show you…"

She'd said this a million times if she'd said it once before. She wanted Hermione to see her as a young pregnant woman, to see her birthing a baby alone, to see her nursing her and loving her, but Hermione was secretly glad it wasn't possible to watch. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

"I loved you from the moment we met," said the woman. "You were instantly my everything."

"I know," whispered Hermione. For a few awkward moments, they looked at each other, neither sure what to say next. Hermione wondered if she would ever adjust to knowing this woman in this way, if it would ever stop feeling foreign, if she would ever again feel like herself.

"You will," said the woman. "You won't be a prisoner forever."

Hermione ducked her head. She hated that the woman could so easily read her thoughts, it was so painfully invasive, but she couldn't help being comforted by the notion that she might someday be free again.

"I'd like that," she said softly. "And I like - I love - this dress. I've never felt so beautiful."

The woman's face broke into a smile. She was pleased. More than pleased. Her mad eyes misted.

Hermione turned back to the mirror. She almost didn't recognize herself. She wasn't sure whether this was good or bad.

"Will I know anyone coming tonight? Aside from your sister and... You-Know-Who?"

"The Dark Lord," she corrected. "And yes. I told you _Severus Snape_ would be in attendance, remember? He is bringing you a gift." The woman sneered when she said his name. Clearly there was no love lost there.

"What is it?" Hermione couldn't help hoping for something from Hogwarts, anything to remind her of who she really was, of her friends and Gryffindor House. But no, of course Snape wouldn't bring her something to remind her of Gryffindor, of Harry, or of Ron.

"Do you want me to ruin the surprise?"

"Please do," said Hermione politely. "I don't know how many surprises I can handle."

"Very well." The woman smiled. "He's giving you the gift of education. After dinner – and dancing, if there's dancing – he is going to grant you a one-hour potions lesson, and return twice per week in the late evenings from now on to help you continue your studies, with permission from the Dark Lord. At first, Snape will only teach you Potions and History of Magic, as the Dark Lord does not yet trust you with a wand." Her hand subconsciously went to her hip, where she kept hers in a leather sheath. Hermione's hand went just as subconsciously to the bun in her hair, where she'd often stuck hers for safe-keeping.

"Professor Snape is going to teach me? To tutor me?"

"He appealed to the Dark Lord on your behalf. He believes it a waste to let Hogwarts' current top pupil languish away in a dungeon, growing stupider by the moment." Bellatrix bristled. "I assured him you are not a dunderhead - that's what he called you, a 'would-be dunderhead' - and that I could educate you myself, but he insisted."

Hermione smiled. That certainly sounded like Snape. And she would embrace the tutelage. She already felt her mind was going somewhat since the start of her incarceration.

"You will be chaperoned. By me or by my sister, or, if he sees fit, by the Dark Lord himself. He wants to be kept informed, to know what you're learning, to gauge whether you've relinquished your silly little loyalties to Dumbledore and Potter." She stepped up to the bars, examining Hermione carefully. "You have, haven't you? You understand now that you were never meant to follow their lead, not when you are the daughter of the Dark Lord, not when you come from my ancient and noble bloodline. They were always the enemy. They were always beneath you."

"They were always the enemy," Hermione echoed obediently. "They were always beneath me."

The woman grinned and clapped her hands. "Brilliant! Now, out of that gown. We have hours before our guests shall arrive and there's too much to do. You need a bath, a proper washing, for which Cissy and I will take you upstairs. She had a clawfoot tub you could practically _swim_ in. Then we'll fix your hair, your nails, those eyebrows… I'm sorry that you have my eyebrows." She rubbed one of her own with the knuckle of her forefinger. "Cissy knows a spell to pluck and shape them, it's almost painless. We'll want to shave your underarms and legs, too. You have to be perfect."

"Perfect?" whispered Hermione anxiously. She'd always strived for perfection when it came to her studies, both at Hogwarts and when she was smaller, in Muggle school, where she aimed for top marks in every class. But when it came to her looks, she'd never come anywhere close to perfection. Never cared to try.

The woman put on a slight pout. Both of her hands went to the bars, gripping them tightly. "You can do it, can't you? You'll be perfect for Mummy tonight, won't you?"

"I'll be perfect," said Hermione, this time nodding with conviction. Knowing it was what the woman so desperately wanted, and feeling she owed her a gift in exchange for the dress and the small freedoms, plus the upcoming return to education and having been saved in the first place, she added, "I'll be perfect for you, Mummy."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **18 June, 1996**

 **(three months ago)**

They didn't get the Prophecy.

They _didn't get_ the Prophecy.

After all that work, _they didn't_ get _the Prophecy._

That nasty toady-eyed boy hadn't come to the Ministry alone. He'd brought friends, a hodgepodge of children of varying talents, and for some reason – perhaps because those Death Eaters who'd spent over a decade in Azkaban were summarily out of practice – they'd therefore found themselves met with a greater challenge than expected.

 _They didn't get the fucking Prophecy._

They damn near did, as Potter moved to hand it over to Malfoy to save his friends, but then the Order of the Phoenix came to aid. The Death Eaters were now nearly evenly matched – twelve to eleven, though Bella wasn't sure each child should count as one whole. The Dark Lord's best versus two ginger Weasleys, a flighty Lovegood, that doughy Longbottom boy, fucking Potter, fucking Potter's godfather, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt (Shacklebolt, a pureblood blood traitor), the werewolf Lupin, and her filthy ex-sister's unfortunately progeny, the Metamorph.

And then, of course, there was the Mudblood.

Bellatrix killed her cousin, Sirius Black, with a cackle and a bit of quick wandwork. He was arrogant and that arrogance was what sent him through the veil more than anything she'd actually shot at him, but it amused her to have pruned her family tree in a way that would have made Mother and Daddy proud. She only regretted she wasn't able to knock off the niece at the same time.

And then they were retreating, because what was there to stay and fight for? The Prophecy had been smashed. The Dark Lord would be furious. And they weren't permitted to kill Potter, not tonight.

Oh, and Dumbledore had arrived.

He attempted to subdue her with a stunner she easily deflected. Then she fled, they all fled, because while they were brave, they were not stupid.

She darted into a room, a room that locked behind her, and the door disappeared. But it was not the room surrounded by doors. This one had none, just flat expanses of wall.

"Fuck."

There was a groan behind her. She turned to see her husband, Rodolphus, bent over a table, with something between him and the wood. The 'something' whimpered.

"What are you doing?" she snarled. "We have to find the way out of here!"

"When the Dark Lord finds we failed, he's going to kill us!" Rodolphus shifted and now, even in the dim light, she could see he was thrust against a girl. The Mudblood. She was wearing those denim Muggle trousers Bellatrix never fancied (jeans?) and he was trying to unbutton the fly. His trousers were already unfastened, his belt on the floor, his robe parted, his mask discarded.

"You're a pig," she said.

"I haven't shagged a bint since 1981 and I won't die without-"

"Glad you've got your priorities straight, then." She went to work trying to figure a way free from the room. There were markings on the wall, ones that moved, oddly shaped. It was a puzzle, she realized. A literal puzzle, and she whipped her wand around trying to fit the pieces together. Behind her, Rodolphus grunted.

"Come on, little swot," he groaned. "Stop fighting…"

"Please, help me!" cried the Mudblood. She was wheezing, no doubt the result of Dolohov's curse.

Bellatrix, figuring out all but the last two pieces of the puzzle, turned to tell Rodolphus to hurry up. What she saw, though, stole her ability to breathe, to formulate cohesive thought, to remain standing upright… She staggered back, hitting another table, and pointed her wand at her husband.

"Back away from her."

"I'll be quick!" He'd already managed to shimmy her jeans down to her knees and was attempting to shove aside her knickers, tilting her arse back so he could get at her pussy from behind, but she was trying to fight back, despite the pain of the curse and despite the way her wrists were bound behind her back.

"Back away!" Bellatrix flicked her wand and a rope came out, which grabbed Rodolphus around the neck, lifted him, and slammed him face first onto the hard floor, as his wand flew across the room. There was a sickening crack upon his landing; his nose was broken. Bellatrix, ignoring his yelp of pain and the swearing that followed, rushing to the Mudblood.

"What is this?" She grabbed the girl's thigh, digging her nails in slightly. "What is this, here?"

"My… my birthmark!" the girl sobbed. "Just a birthmark!"

"You were born with it?"

"Yes!"

"Your mother says you were born with it?"

"My… my mother… my…"

"Tell me about the mark, girl." Bellatrix held the tip of her wand under the Mudblood's chin. Her heart was racing and pounding and threatening to beat its way free from her chest. The color, the shape, the feel against her skin… she would never forget that marking.

"Tell... you... what?" sobbed the girl.

"Your mother saw it when you were born? Straight away?"

"I'm... I'm adopted!" she wailed, overcome by pain and fear. "My m-mother said I had it when they g-got me! It's just a b-birthmark!"

"Adopted?"

Hermione nodded. Bellatrix dropped to her knees to more closely examine the birthmark, which spread from her upper thigh all the way down to her ankle.

"Bitch!" sputtered Rodolphus, finally pulling himself into a standing position, blood flowing freely from his nose. Bellatrix flicked her wand, knocking him down again, this time, unconscious. Stunned.

"Who bore you, girl? What do you know of her?"

"My… my b-birth mother… She d-died in… in p-prison… and…"

Bellatrix rose, pulled the girls jeans back up, gently zipped and buttoned them, then freed her wrists. The girl was trembling, freezing, still wheezing. Between fighting the effects of Dolohov's curse and the terror over having nearly been assaulted by Rodolphus, shock was setting in.

"Come." Bellatrix gripped her wrist firmly, then swiveled her so the Mudblood's back was against her chest, like a Muggle hostage. She quickly completed the puzzle and hurried the girl down the corridor. They were almost to the main atrium when Potter caught up with them, hitting Bellatrix from behind.

"Crucio!"

His weak but well-aimed Unforgivable Curse caught her by surprise and made her drop the girl. She stumbled, nearly ending up on the floor herself, but she quickly recovered, swiveling around with wand drawn.

"Did you hurt her?" he shouted, nodding at Hermione, who lay lifelessly at her feet. "Did you kill her like you did my godfather?"

"Would that make you sad, ickle bitty Potter?" she taunted, though she stepped protectively in front of the girl's crumpled form. In a baby-talk voice, she added, "Would that make you cry, ickly bitty baby Potter? Would-"

"CRUCIO!"

This time, it hurt, like stubbing one's toe against the foot of a table or slicing one's finger open on fresh parchment. It hit her with force, too, knocking her back onto her arse. A third "Crucio!" stole her breath, but only for a second, and after a moment's exaggerated pout, she was laughing, scrambling to her feet, again positioning herself between him and the girl. She couldn't let him get the girl.

"Is that all?" She cackled. "You have to really _mean_ _them_ , Potter! You have to really _want_ to cause pain! Let me _teach_ you." She raised her wand. "Cruc-"

But there was a scuffle behind them, a noise, a scream, and she twisted to see HE had arrived, her love, her master, her Dark Lord.

In the moment Potter was distracted, she reached down, grabbed the girl around the waist, and flung them both into the atrium, where the Dark Lord was now staring down Dumbledore. Potter burst in behind them, furiously rushing right past where Bellatrix and the girl were partially hidden by a statue.

Dumbledore was calling the Dark Lord "Tom," the ultimate sign of disrespect. The Dark Lord was taunting the old man. Both had their wands at the ready, but both also seemed eerily calm.

"Aurors are on their way, Tom."

"By the time they arrive, I'll be gone and you'll be dead!"

The Dark Lord sent the Killing Curse at Potter, but the boy was protected by the old man. Still holding tightly to the girl, Bellatrix rushed forward, wand drawn, and tried to send a Cruciatus at the Muggle-lover's back, but she tripped over the girl – or, perhaps, the girl tripped her – and they both stumbled. The curse hit a statue, which snapped at the base and fell, trapping them between the marble and the floor, immobilizing her. She closed her eyes and tried to apparate, but it was futile. The blow seemed to wake the girl, who whimpered. Bellatrix tried again to apprate, then to blast the statue off them, but when neither worked she cried out with fury. Still, she refused to relinquish her grip on the scared, struggling girl beneath her.

Dumbledore and the Dark Lord dueled. She was powerless to aid her lover as he dueled. He even possessed Potter briefly, goading the old man to kill them both, but for some reason the Dark Lord suddenly screamed and retreated. She felt it, rather than saw it, when the Dark Lord blasted off the statue, grabbed her around the waist, and disapparated.

She was still holding tightly to the girl.

When she opened her eyes again, they were in the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was standing between two picture windows, looking sick, with shaking hands.

"Bella, where is Lucius?"

"Lucius was left behind," said the Dark Lord coldly. He threw Bellatrix and the girl to the floor. "Lucius failed me." He raised his wand, pointing it at Bella. "You _all_ failed me. Crucio!"

The pain was more intense than any she'd ever felt, more than a thousand times worse than Potter's earlier attempts at the same. When it was over, he turned his wand on the girl.

"But this," he hissed. "Bringing Potter's Mudblood back to be questioned and killed? Ingenious. It is the reason I'll not punish you too harshly, Bella."

"My… my Lord…" Bellatrix struggled to speak, to breathe. "Please, I…"

"To the cellar with her for now. She's of no use to us in this condition."

It was then Bellatrix realized the girl had again gone unconscious. She was bleeding from her lip, and more blood stained the front of her pale pink shirt. Her breathing was shallow. Narcissa took the initiative, using a hovering charm to lift her. Bellatrix, though it hurt, managed to pull herself into a standing position and follow them downstairs, down to the cellar.

At least, with the girl unconscious, she could buy herself time. She needed to know, needed to be sure. It seemed impossible…

But the girl's mother had died in prison. And Bella's baby had died in prison.

Or so she'd been told.

Seemed too close to be coincidental, considering the unique marking. And the wild hair. And the brilliant wand work.

Could it be possible?

"I need you to stay with her, Cissy. I need you to heal her as best you can, and watch over her, and keep her safe." Bellatrix held her own side, already bruised from the fallen statue. She pictured the face of that Azkaban guard, the one she'd spent the last seventeen years loathing. She knew his name. She knew where he lived. She'd tracked him down upon her release, biding her time until it was right, until she could confront him.

Now, the time was right.

"Where are you going?" Narcissa asked nervously, wringing her hands as Bella placed a series of charms and wards around a section of the cellar, shutting it off from the rest of the space with bars. She then rolled the girl gently onto her back, transfigured a small footstool into a soft mattress, and placed the girl atop it. Gently she brushed back her hair, studying her face, lifting her eyelids, looking for any resemblance. The frazzled hair that could be hers, the perfect nose that could be his, the lips, the brows, her cheekbones, her eye color…

"Bella?"

Bellatrix stood and steeled herself.

"Stay with her, Cissy. Heal her. Keep her safe. I shall return shortly." She pushed back her shoulders and slipped her wand into its sheath. "I have to visit an old friend."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Sorry, I know I said Tuesdays and Thursdays and that IS still the plan, but last night a family friend from Australia unexpectedly stopped in after dinner and everything went by the wayside. The next update will be posted late tomorrow night (Thurs). Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews on the last chapter! I'm glad so many of you are fans of slow-burn fics and that there's some empathy for Bella because I love both slow-burn and my darling Bellatrix. (lol)

As you can see, I took some liberties with the Department of Mysteries scenes in order to set up this fic. Please forgive me! I love keeping canon but it's not always possible.

Today, as you probably know, is the 20-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, which means Bellatrix and Voldemort were killed on this date in 1998. _/sob/_ Today JKR apologized for killing Dobby, but still nothing for _any_ of my favorite Death Eaters. What's up with that?! (Note: not counting Snape there. She apologized for him last year, but he was a defected Death Eater, so...)

Anyway, thanks again for reading! Please let me know what you think!

 **-AL**

 **PS:** If you're bored and looking for a one-shot with a pairing literally nobody's ever asked for, check out my new one-shot Come to Dust, in which Severus Snape and Poppy Pomfrey commiserate and comfort each other the night Cedric Diggory died. It was a **Quills & Parchment** Healers & Mediwizards contest entry that won Best Drama and was runner-up for Best Angst, Best Workplace Smut, and Best Pairing I Didn't Know I Needed. I've never won an award for a fic before, so I was pretty excited about it! Thx!


	4. ANDROMEDA TONKS

**CHAPTER THREE:**

 **ANDROMEDA TONKS**

 **19 June, 1996**

 **(three months ago)**

It was midnight exactly when she burst through the pathetic protections placed on his home and entered, wand at the ready, heavy-lidded dark eyes ablaze.

He was asleep on the couch, a book open on his chest, a bottle of some cheap Muggle ale on the floor. She did not check to see whether he was alone. She didn't care. She felt she could take down anyone in this moment, Dumbledore included.

"You!"

Her stinging hex hit him square in the chest. He lurched and shouted and fell to the floor, knocking over and breaking the beer bottle in the process.

"Fuck!" He grasped for his wand, but it had rolled away from him in his sleep.

"Move and I'll kill you."

He froze. His eyes met hers, and she could see in his nothing but sheer terror. She hadn't seen him since the end of her first stint in Azkaban. After that, she'd been underground or on the run for just about two years, until torturing the Longbottoms got her arrested and returned to prison, by which time he was no longer working there.

"What do you want from me?" he rasped. He was kneeling in broken glass, but did not seem to notice the way it was digging into his kneecaps, drawing blood. She curled and lip and considered spitting on him. Azkaban had aged her, there was no doubt, but something had aged him, too. There were the usual signs of time gone by – graying hair, crows feet, a little more belly than there'd been – but he also looked weary and worn and weathered.

"I had a daughter," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"You told me she died."

"Y-yes."

She jabbed her wand forward. He flinched.

"Did my daughter die? What happened to my baby?"

His mouth opened to answer, but he hesitated. This time the wand jab was accompanied by a nonverbal hex that hit him full in the face, singeing the hair off his brow and upper lip. He yelped as his hands flew to his face.

"Tell me about my daughter." She pushed up her left sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark. "Or I'll call for the Dark Lord and have him question you himself."

"I was ordered to do it!" he said, his eyes trained on her wand. "But I refused!"

"You refused to do what?"

"My orders were to… to drown the baby. But I couldn't do it. I hated you, but… but she was a baby!"

"You were ordered to drown my baby?" All this time she'd thought her newborn girl had died naturally, that she'd stopped breathing, perhaps because she hadn't done a sufficient job of clearing her airway after birth. All this time, all those years in Azkaban, she'd blamed herself. The guilt had consumed her. It was the feeling that resurfaced every time a Dementor got close. Having her baby ripped from her arms was her worst memory, the one that replayed over and over again in her head in Azkaban.

But it hadn't been her fault at all.

"Who? Who ordered you to drown my baby?"

"I… I can't say!"

She flicked her wand, sending out a thick black whip that got him across the hip and thigh. He pitched face-first onto the couch, bent at the waist, and wailed.

"Tell me!"

"I don't know! It was an order handed down from someone above us, that's all we knew! But I couldn't do it!"

"We?"

"I... me! All I knew!"

Her eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"I slipped her to a coworker. She was… she was a cook in the kitchen, and one of few women… there weren't many women working there!"

"Who was this coworker? What did she do with my baby?"

"I don't know."

Bellatrix flicked the wand again, but this time nothing happened. The man threw up his hands in surrender.

"I don't know! I gave the baby to Mrs. Tonks, and I told her to-"

"To whom did you give my baby?" Her mind was reeling. She knew that name, _Tonks._ It was the name of her niece. The name of her sister.

"Andromeda Tonks. She worked in the kitchens-"

"You shouldn't have lied to me."

"I'm telling the truth!"

"In 1979." She sneered down at him. "You should not have lied to me then."

"I'm sor-"

"Avada Kedavra."

It took only seconds to move from his home to that of her sister, the same one in which she'd been living since the late seventies. Bella had been there before. Andromeda, at that time, refused to see her.

Just as it was at the former warden's home, the measly protective wards here were easily dismantled, and she was granted access.

The house was dark. She wondered if the girl was here, her niece, home from the Ministry. She therefore moved quietly through the home in search of her sister. She found her in bed with the Mudblood man she married.

"Wake up." Bellatrix used Aquamenti to rouse her sister from a sound sleep.

"Nymphadora?" The woman sat up, confused, and dried her wet face on her sleeves. "What are you…"

"Lumos."

Andromeda gasped. The witch in front of her, holding a lit wand inches from her face, was not her daughter but her long estranged older sister. Their resemblance was uncanny. Had one of them not spent the last decade-plus in a place that rotted her teeth and left her emaciated, they could almost be twins. It had always been that way when they were young, though Andromeda had a softness to her Bella didn't share, while Bellatrix oozed confidence that Meda never managed to capture.

"How delightful," said Bellatrix mockingly. "You're awake."

"Merlin's beard, Bella." Andromeda scratched at her upper chest, just above the line of her nightgown, an old nervous tic. "Where's my daughter? Have you killed her?"

"Fuck your daughter," Bellatrix said harshly. Then, to ensure he wouldn't wake and interrupt, she hit Ted Tonks with a Petrificus Totalis. "What did you do with _my_ daughter?"

Andromeda's eyes widened. _"Your_ daughter? I believe they told you she was dead. She died shortly after birth, didn't she?"

"Did she?"

Andromeda avoided her eye.

"Little sister, you know as well as I that we wouldn't be having this impromptu tête-à-tête after all these years if I still believed her to be dead." Bellatrix assumed an attack position, wand held over her hand, ready to duel. "I am seeking information, and I am prepared to torture you to get it. I'll do you worse than I did Alice Longbottom. She refused to do what was smart, and look where that left her."

Andromeda plucked her own wand up from her bedside table and, without taking her eyes off her sister, carefully placed it on the bedroom floor. She leaned back against the headboard and held her hands to either side of her shoulders, palms out.

"Do your worst, then, if that's what you want to do."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Bellatrix. "Protect yourself."

"If you want to kill me, you'll kill me. I see no reason to waste my last breaths trying to fight back. We both know I'm no match for you."

"Fuck your flattery."

Andromeda couldn't help a slight smile. "You never were one for empty compliments, were you, Bella?"

"Not from you."

"No." Andromeda crossed her arms and regarded Bella carefully. "Not from me. From him, though, you'll take them, won't you? For your murderous leader, you'll just about die for a little recognition, a pat on the head, a 'job well done.' Is that right? Are you still falling all over yourself to impress him? Are you still falling into his bed, desperate to believe he cares for you as anything more than a servant and a slag?"

Bellatrix's eyes flashed. They were so much alike, the elder two Black sisters, and because of that both knew best how to hurt the other. Under different circumstances, Bellatrix might have come back with an attack just as low and needling and dirty, but she had limited time tonight. She therefore lowered her wand, put one hand on her hip, and forced a smile.

"Oh, Andromeda, sweet little sister whom I once loved dearly, let's not do this. The time for petty squabbles has passed. We're how old, now?"

" _You're_ nearing fifty, though you look as though you've surpassed that particular milestone." Andromeda smirked. "Did they not provide toothbrushes in prison?"

Bellatrix ran her tongue over her cracked front teeth. She, like Narcissa, had always been vain. Now she was loath to even glimpse her reflection in the bathroom mirror most mornings.

"Your daughter is fine." Bellatrix needed to get this train back on track. "We battled tonight, but she's alive, unscathed. What about _mine_? I know she was set to be killed. I know I was meant to believe she was dead. And I know you snuck her out of Azkaban. What did you do with her?"

"What any decent woman would do when cradling a baby marked for death." Andromeda relaxed back against fluffed pillows, looking almost bored now that she was sure her sister wouldn't be attacking tonight. "I brought her to a Muggle orphanage in London, the one in which my husband was raised. I told the woman running it that the girl's mother had died in prison, there were no other relatives save for me, and I didn't want her. They said they'd find her a good home. I left."

"You brought her to a Muggle orphanage." For the first time all night, Bellatrix's voice was shaky and small. "And then…?"

"I kept tabs on her. She was adopted four months later by a pair of dentists, nice couple, Muggles. Do you know what dentists are?"

"No."

"You should. They clean teeth."

"Fuck you."

Andromeda smiled. "I meant nothing by that, of course."

"Tell me more." Bellatrix aimed her wand at Andromeda again, even though she knew this was unnecessary. "I need to know everything."

"I've told you everything. I slipped her out, I brought her to the orphanage, she was adopted by dentists. They named her-"

"Hermione."

Andromeda looked momentarily surprised, but recovered quickly. "Yes, Hermione. I take it you've found her then?"

"Yes, I found her, no thanks to you." Bellatrix glared down at her younger sister. "You _stole_ my daughter from me."

Andromeda laughed. "I did no such thing! I _saved_ her. The man who asked my advice – he asked me for advice because I was the only woman on duty that shift – he was given strict orders to _drown_ her."

"I know."

"I assume he didn't know about us – about you and me, being sisters – and he didn't tell me the baby was yours, but I knew."

"You knew she was mine, but he didn't tell you?"

"I knew she was yours upon laying eyes on her. That 'birthmark' is hereditary, down the Rosier line." She swept back the blankets to reveal her own legs. The back of the right was stained with the same raised purpling as Hermione's. "Mother hated me for having the marking, for being marred, just as her own vile mother had been."

"Mother never hated you." Bellatrix felt sickened looking upon Andromeda's leg. She hadn't seen the mark on her since they were children, when they used to bathe and swim together. She'd been granted permission to wear thick tights to cover it when they were at Hogwarts, and they hadn't seen each other at all in almost thirty years. And, quite frankly, she'd somehow forgotten all about it.

"Please." Andromeda rolled her eyes. "We both know she hated me."

"And you knew I was pregnant when I was taken to Azkaban?"

"Yes." At this, Andromeda looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "As a matter of fact, I visited you several times, nearly always when you were sleeping. I still missed you, then."

"But not now." It was an accusation. An unnecessary one.

"We're different people now." Andromeda chuckled bitterly. "But who do you think prepared your food back then, dear sister? Because I knew you were pregnant I made sure you were sent up trays with more to eat than what the other prisoners had, with healthier meals, sometimes with meat pies I made myself or fresh fruit I slipped into work because I thought the baby should have a solid chance for survival, even if you were set to languish there the rest of your natural born life." Andromeda paused for a long moment, looking her sister over. It was obvious Bella hadn't spent the last fourteen years of her incarceration enjoying fresh fruit and meat pies, though Andromeda wouldn't know for certain; she'd quit the job shortly after she and Ted lost their second child, in 1980. _"You're welcome."_

"If we're being honest, I can't say I would save your daughter as you did mine." Bellatrix crouched down to pick up Andromeda's wand from the floor. She held the wand toward her sister. "If given the opportunity, I might kill her."

"That's the difference between you and me, then, isn't it?" Andromeda took the wand. "I don't think _any_ mother deserves to bury her child. Not even you."

"I killed cousin Sirius tonight."

Andromeda closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and gripped the handle of her wand tightly. After a moment, she nodded.

"I always liked him, when he was a boy. I never thought he was guilty of killing thirteen with one curse. I never thought he was a Death Eater."

"He wasn't."

"You murdered him?"

"Good as." She shrugged. "I'm not sorry."

"Where is my Nymphadora?" Worry crept back into Andromeda's voice. "Is she alright?"

"Relatively unscathed, as I said." Bellatrix smiled. "She holds her own in battle with experienced wizards twice her age. You should be proud."

"I am."

"There's room for you, you know. For you and for her." Bellatrix glanced at Ted. "Leave the Mudblood. Come home to us. The Dark Lord-"

"Is a madman, a blood supremacist, and a murderer. I have no interest in being counted among his followers." Andromeda looked pointedly at the tattooed marking on her sister's arm, plainly visibly as her sleeve was still pushed up. She leaned forward to run her fingertips down the body of the snake slithering out of the mouth of the skull, then resumed eye contact. "I would never consent to being branded as you've been."

In response, Bellatrix borrowed her sister's words. "Well, that's the difference between you and me, then, isn't it?"

Andromeda pulled her fingers back, curling them against her palm, and sighed.

"How did you find out about Hermione? Is she safe?"

"I have neither the time nor the desire to enlighten you. I've already been here too long." Bellatrix knelt down by the head of the bed and grabbed Andromeda roughly by the back of her hair with the hand not holding her wand. "You and I have the same blood, Andromeda Black. And that blood flows through both your Nymphadora and my… _Hermione_." It wasn't the name she would have chosen, but she supposed it was too late to change it now. "That _pure_ blood runs through us, going back centuries, keeping us tied together… always. And as the Dark Lord will confirm, it's never too late to make the right choice."

Andromeda glanced calmly at her husband and back to her sister, locking eyes.

"I made the right choice in 1972."

Bellatrix jerked her sister forward, pressed her lips to Andromeda's forehead, then slapped her, hard, across the face. She stood, backing toward the door, and, without another word, she disapparated.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Being pampered by house-elves and fussed over by Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy wasn't the way Hermione Granger expected to spend her seventeenth birthday, but there was a tiny little itty bitty part of her that enjoyed the attention, that liked how she looked, and that was looking forward to dinner and dancing and her tutoring session with Severus Snape.

"Isn't she lovely?" the woman asked her sister, making Hermione twirl for them in her new gown.

"Lovely," confirmed the sister. "Do you think I went thin enough with her brows?"

"Yes. You don't want them too thin."

"Too thin is in style."

"Not my style."

Hermione tried to block out the sound of the squabble. They'd been arguing over inconsequential things all afternoon, like what color her nail polish should be and whether diamond and jewel encrusted bracelets on both wrists was too much.

She could only imagine what Harry and Ron would say if they could see her like this.

Half an hour later, she was fully ready for the evening.

"My husband is in Azkaban." The sister – _Narcissa_ – made eye contact with Hermione in the mirror. She was standing behind her, clasping an ornate three-tiered diamond necklace. "He was arrested the night you broke into the Ministry, as you are well aware."

"I know."

"It kills me, sleeping alone, worrying about him." Narcissa glanced toward the door. They were in the bedroom in which the woman was staying, but the woman had stepped out, summoned by her Dark Lord. Narcissa put her lips close to Hermione's ear. "I don't much care who you're loyal to, but I'll do anything to protect my husband and son, and if you being here endangers either of them in any way at any point…"

"Your sister seems to like me."

"My sister isn't in her right mind." Narcissa glanced toward the door again. She'd been given strict orders to keep a close watch over the girl, but to allow no harm to come to her. "She says you've been changed, that you love her and called her 'Mummy' this morning. She thinks you've let go of your loyalties to Dumbledore, the Order, and Harry Potter. But we know better, don't we, dear girl?"

Hermione steeled herself, regarding Narcissa coolly, her chin tilted just-so. In this moment she looked very much like her biological mother. "Dumbledore is a Muggle-loving old fool, The Order is comprised of the enemy, and Harry Potter…" This one pained her to say, but she got it out. "Harry Potter and his friends are beneath me. I'd sooner see them die than lower myself to rejoining them."

"You may well get your wish." Narcissa scratched anxiously at the ivory skin above the neckline of her bodice. "I don't know whether you're suffering from some sort of Stockholm Syndrome or if you're merely decent actress, but the Dark Lord can see deeper into your soul than even you can. He'll be less incensed by lingering loyalties than he would be by at attempt to trick him, understand?"

"I understand." For the first time all afternoon, worry was visible on Hermione's face.

"My sister has her faults and at times I've wondered whether she's a sadist or a sociopath – or both – but I think it's clear she genuinely loves you." Narcissa dropped her voice to a whisper. "She wasn't always mad, you know. Azkaban did a lot of it – all those years, surrounded by Dementors – but your death… the death of her newborn… that was the catalyst for her decline. She became even more fanatical about following You-Know-Who, she started having nightmares which led to bouts of insomnia during which she'd be more aggressive and out-for-blood than usual, and after which she'd overdose on sleeping draughts then be out for two straight days. They say she tortured the Longbottoms for information after the Dark Lord fell, but that's not true. She tortured them because..." Narcissa broke off and scratched harder, leaving red lines across the pale skin of her chest, and by the way her eyes darted, Hermione wondered if her next words would be a lie. "Because she couldn't bear the thought of having to go on without him, of losing both her only child and the man who gave that child to her. She wasn't always in love with him, but when she was pregnant-"

"Look what I've found!"

Narcissa stepped quickly away from Hermione, put on a smile, and turned to face her entering sister.

"What is it?"

"This was mine!" The woman – _Mummy_ – held up a hanger, on which hung a beautiful long black gown with white and dark purple accents. "I wore it to Mummy and Daddy's thirtieth anniversary party, remember, Cissy?"

"Of course I remember! I always loved that dress!"

"It was in the attic. A house-elf brought me down a trunk of old things – I had shoes in there too, and several hair clips, a beaded handbag, jewelry… I'm going to wear it tonight."

She looked herself over in the mirror, placing a hand flat against her abdomen. "I may have to have you take it in, Cissy. I was heavier in 1979." She caught Hermione's eye and laughed. "You attended your grandparents' anniversary party too, as a matter of fact. It was March. Your stepfather and I were estranged, so in a sense, you were my date." She chuckled. "Your aunt and uncle did not approve."

It still felt strange to Hermione to hear that she had grandparents and that the Malfoys were her aunt and uncle, and to think about how the man who tried to assault her was her stepfather.

It also still felt strange knowing that the biological mother she'd spent half her childhood dreaming about was not only a witch, but _this_ witch.

And she would never be able to accept that she had been fathered by…

"The Dark Lord loved me in this dress!" Holding it against her body, the woman spun around, catching her reflection from all angles. "Had I not already been pregnant, you might have been conceived that night!"

Hermione blanched. Narcissa squeezed her wrist, but whether it was in reassurance or warning she couldn't be certain.

"Guests are already arriving," continued the woman. "You'll be the last to enter the room. Traditionally, when a witch of our standing comes of age, her father escorts her into the ballroom – or drawing room, in this case."

"We'll be in the drawing room?" Hermione had assumed they'd be eating in the dining room, which she'd seen only once before. She felt a twisting in her tummy. She'd only seen the drawing room of Malfoy Manor twice thus far, the night she arrived, and the night he called for her, and both times she'd nearly been killed.

"Cissy and I will go in before you, leaving you alone in the hall with the Dark Lord. You'll enter on his arm. But we are not yet revealing your true identity… That is to say, everyone present will know you are my daughter long thought dead, but they'll assume Rodolphus is your father and we'll not set them straight. I will thank the Dark Lord for escorting you in the absence of my worthless husband, rotting away in Azkaban at the present…"

Narcissa let out a small whimper, no doubt thinking of her own husband's place.

"After dinner, barring any significant disasters, there will be dancing, as we discussed. You'll be expected to dance with the Dark Lord and with any other Death Eater who requests it. You'll also be expected to treat them all with respect, but if any behave inappropriately, I'll spot it and come to your rescue."

"At my coming out, a friend of my father palmed my arse while dancing," Narcissa broke in. "Walden Macnair, Senior. My mother was watching like a hawk and hurried over to whisk me away, then sent Daddy to speak with him. We won't make a scene, but we won't let anyone fondle you on the dance floor either."

"You'll meet our father tonight." The woman and her sister exchanged a nervous glance. "He is reclusive these days. I'm told it will be his first time out of the cottage house in three years, since the funeral of our mother."

"You will more certainly dance with Severus Snape." Narcissa turned Hermione to face her and began fussing with the softly curled tendrils hanging down to either side of her face. The rest of her hair was up in an ornate plait that wrapped around itself several times, and into which fresh flowers had been fastened, enchanted to keep from wilting. "He is bringing Draco. Dumbledore has been told I'm quite ill, that's the official reason for Draco's visit, but there will be increased security surrounded Malfoy Manor all night on the off chance the Order decides to orchestrate some sort of recovery effort."

"Do they know I'm here?" Hermione's eyes widened. The Prophet had reported her dead. Thinking that too cruel for the Muggle dentists who had cared so well for her throughout her childhood, Bellatrix had not allowed for them to receive the same news. Instead she'd Obliviated both of them, given them new identities, and sent them off to Australia to practice teeth cleaning there instead.

She'd told Hermione this was her gift to them.

"As far as we know, they believe you to be dead," answered Narcissa, side-eyeing her sister. "Though Snape tells us there are those in the Order who have doubts. We cannot, therefore, be too careful."

"The Dark Lord intends for them to learn the truth eventually," said the woman, who'd just shimmied into her black, white, and purple gown. It was indeed a bit big, particularly in the midsection, but Narcissa altered it with a few nonverbal charms. "Just not until we're ready for your world premiere!" She giggled and Hermione couldn't help thinking she seemed almost nervous. "Consider tonight your dress rehearsal!"

Hermione felt sick – beautiful, but sick – as the two women led her downstairs a short time later. She could hear chatter coming from the direction of the drawing room, though the heavy double doors remained closed. Standing with his back to the stairs, was HIM.

The Dark Lord.

He Who Must Not Be Named.

Voldemort.

He turned slowly when he heard them coming. His eyes swept first over the woman, and he smiled. Then he nodded politely to her sister, and, finally, his gaze rested upon the seventeen-year-old between them.

"Come, Hermione," he said, holding out a hand. His skin was sallow, his nails too long. His pupils were red and he had no hair, no eyebrows, no nose. He was serpent-like in both his look and his movements. And, by his feet, slithered the snake, Nagini. Hermione took deep breaths and tried to picture him as the woman – _her mother_ – described. Young. Handsome. With cinnamon colored eyes and brown hair, like her. With lips that smiled and fair but warm-looking skin.

For the first time in three months, she desperately longed for a photograph or Pensieve, as the woman frequently lamented the loss of.

"Do not be frightened, my girl."

She placed her small palm in his. Hers were icy, but his was a different sort of cold. The cold of a dead body, not a terrified one.

He was smiling, and it was even more unnerving than when he wasn't.

Narcissa, smiling without warmth, greeted the Dark Lord, who kissed her cheek. He did the same to the woman, but lingered longer with his lips just beyond the corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, but he straightened and gestured for them to enter the Drawing Room. Narcissa did so and the woman moved to follow, but she paused and suddenly embraced Hermione.

She whispered in her ear. "You'll be perfect for Mummy, won't you? _Promise_ me."

"Yes," Hermione whispered back, just as she had no less than six times already today. "I _promise_ , Mummy."

The doors closed behind them. The Dark Lord turned to Hermione, gripping her forearms, and gazing deeply into her eyes, their foreheads nearly touching. Remembering Narcissa's words of warning, she did not try to hide her true feelings, and after a few moments he blinked and backed slightly away.

"You are trying to relinquish loyalty to your friends, to Dumbledore, but it is difficult."

"I'm sorry, my Lord." She ducked her head, hoping humility and apologies would save her.

"Do not be sorry. I see that you are _trying_ , and I appreciate the efforts." He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, raising her face until their eyes met again. "I have spoken with Severus Snape at length about you." He hissed the name and in response, the snake hissed too, threading herself between Hermione's ankles. "He says you're brilliant, both with a wand and with those subjects that require more… thought. Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration… _Defense Against_ the Dark Arts."

"I have always strived to excel in school, sir, and refuse to accept anything less than perfection when it comes to my marks," she said, sounding unnaturally formal but not nearly as nervous as she felt.

"Yesss." He tilted his head, looking into her eyes as if rifling through her mind again. "I was impressed by the results of your O.W.L.s."

"You received the results of my O.W.L.s?!" Her voice went up in both volume and pitch as her eyebrows rose and, despite the circumstances, her eyes shone with excitement. "How many did I-"

"Eleven."

Were she not so damned thrilled by this, she might have noticed the thinly veiled pride in his red eyes.

"Ten Outstanding and one Exceeds Expectations."

"Oh." Her face fell a little. "Which was 'Exceeds Expectations?'"

He laughed, a high, nails-on-blackboard laugh she would not have expected from the throat of any man, not even one as lacking in humanity as him, and released her chin.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts, Miss… Hermione. Perhaps the trouble is, it is not _defense_ you need to be learning when it comes to the Dark Arts."

"Will Professor Snape-"

"He will be teaching Potions and History of Magic to start." He caught her face again, this time with his palms to her cheeks. "I see a bit of Bella in you. She earned eight Outstandings and two Exceeds Expectations… and one Dreadful."

Hermione's eyes widened. "She received a _Dreadful_?"

"In Divination." His barely existent lip curled into something like a smirk. "I will not pretend to be unbothered by the wavering loyalty to and love of your friends, namely Potter, but I believe we can work with you, Hermione Grang…" He paused and shook his head. "That won't do. Hermione Black."

"Black, _her_ maiden name." This entire thing still seemed so mind-bogglingly surreal to Hermione, she wondered vaguely whether she'd ever be able to process it. For the last three months, the key had been self-preservation. She'd had to accept certain things and let go of others simply to stay alive, and over time, she'd even started to feel pleased when she knew the woman was pleased with her. But this…?

"Black will do for now." He held out his arm. Obediently, she linked her elbow against his, fighting the urge to shiver at the contact.

"It is only a matter of time before you discover from within who you are meant to be, Hermione Black. And only then will you truly be able to call yourself 'the Dark Lord's daughter.' But for now…" He waved his hand casually, and the doors to the drawing room opened seemingly of their own accord. The chatter within immediately died away, and all present turned to face them.

Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever felt more fucking terrified in her entire life.

She glanced down, catching the way the light made the colors of her dress dance, the way it shimmered off the diamonds adorning her neck and wrists.

So fucking terrified, and so fucking beautiful.

"Friends…" He nodded toward Severus Snape, by the fireplace. "Family…" A nod to the woman and her sister, standing on either side of a white-haired man. "And… invited guests…" She followed his gaze toward a group comprised of presumed Death Eaters, including the fathers of Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott. "I present to you, Hermione, daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

Hermione inhaled sharply, forced a smile on her face as the woman had commanded her to do, and stepped forward on the arm of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Her father.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Coming up in** **Chapter 4** : the formal dinner, dancing with Snape, meeting Grandfather, and a quick conversation with cousin Draco.

 **Coming up in** **Chapter 5** : Hermione's first tutoring session with Snape and a flashback to the scene referenced in the summary, in which Bellatrix saves her daughter from the Dark Lord's attempted murder.

 **Note:** On the Black family tree, it lists Cygnus (Bellatrix's father) as having died in 1992 and Druella (her mother) still being alive as of 1995. For the purpose of this fic, I switched the two. Tonks was born in late 1972 through mid-1973, so I went with late 1972, making her almost 24 as of September 1996.

 **Review Responses:** Thank you to everyone who took the time to tell me what you thought about the last chapter! I hugely appreciate it. On a Hermione-centric FB group I'm in, some readers were writing about how they like to get specific PM responses to their reviews so they know that the author is reading them. I don't usually do that unless someone PMs me first, but I want to be clear that I _do_ read and cherish every bit of feedback. I'm like a Niffler, and reviews are my favorite shiny objects! So I hope no one feels slighted if I don't reply to each, I'm just so focused on getting the next chapter written! That said, to address something asked in a review – I do intend to get into Hermione's head more soon, once she's not under the watchful eye of Narcissa and Bellatrix, as she has to be careful to control her thoughts when they're around. You'll get a better idea of how she feels about the situation when she's 1:1 with Snape.

 **Thanks again!**

 **-AL**


	5. HUNGER

**CHAPTER FOUR:**

 **HUNGER**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

She avoided eye contact but was fully aware that each person in that room had their gaze intently trained on her. Still, she kept her shoulders back, chin up, a dignified smile playing at her lips, and she nodded ever-so-slightly in the direction of those she recognized, including Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy, and, of course, the woman. The man whose arm was looped with hers led her to their places at the center of the table; all guests were to be seated on one side, facing the direction of the door, like the apostles at the Last Supper. (She wondered whether this made her or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Jesus; she had a feeling if her friends could see her now, she'd be pegged the Judas.)

"Let's all be seated," said the Dark Lord. "In the interest of good manners, we'll go from one of the table to the other and introduce ourselves to our… guest."

She felt the woman's hand on her knee under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. How did she know Hermione was scared out of her mind? Was it Legilimency… or Mother's Intuition?

"We shall start to my right." He fixed his attention on a beady-eyed man with dusty blond hair and the woman seated beside him, a slim, scowling brunette. "Tell Miss Black about yourselves."

"Thorfinn Rowle," said the man, slightly inclining his head, eyes on Hermione. "And my wife, Euphemia."

Euphemia neither spoke nor looked up.

"We have two children and it was only because of them we escaped prosecution after the Dark Lord's fall. Had they not been so small, my Lord, we would have tried to-"

"Water under the bridge." The Dark Lord smiled at Hermione, who fought the urge to shiver. "Did you know Eloise and Finn Rowle at Hogwarts, dear girl?"

"No, sir."

"They've been out a few years now, my Lord." Thorfinn Rowle's face twisted into a sneer. "And they did not interact with many _Gryffindors_ while they were there."

"All Houses have their merits, let us not forget." The man stroked the head of his snake, Nagini, who was creeping up to the table like a dog begging for scraps. "We have had all represented among our ranks... save for Hufflepuffs."

"We don't need Hufflepuffs," said the woman, her hand still on Hermione's knee. "If we want someone brainless bumbling around and eating all our food, we've got Crabbe and Goyle."

Several Death Eaters chuckled at that, including good-humored Crabbe, but Goyle looked entirely put out.

"I'll have you know," he said, "I have a _thyroid_ condition."

She flashed a placating smile. "Of course you do, love."

"Civility, please, Bella," said the man. "This is a special occasion, let's not ruin it by goading each other into battle. No one wins when we war from within."

Though Hermione hated to give the man any credit, she nodded at this; he was spot on.

"Alecto, introduce yourself."

"Alecto Carrow, age thirty-two," said the big-boned ginger settled between Euphemia Rowle and Goyle, senior. "Not married, no children. I have long supported the Dark Lord alongside my brother, Amycus. We were the last two to receive the Dark Mark before the fall in..." She winced. "Er... I mean... before _the incident_ in 1981"

"And where is Amycus tonight?" asked the man coolly.

 _The Dark Lord,_ Hermione reminded herself. _Think of him as the Dark Lord. He Who Must Not-_

"St. Mungo's, my Lord. Dragon Pox. He sends his regards and apologies." She glanced anxiously from one end of the table to the other. "Without him, my Lord, we are thirteen sat down to dine."

The woman snorted at this. The man looked to her with bemusement.

"Bella, you know what they say when thirteen sit down to dine."

 _"_ _The first to rise is the first to die,"_ she answered in an obedient sing-song, but she quickly added, "Superstition. The sort of rubbish espoused by that bug-eyed tea-leaf-reading charlatan Sybill Trelawney. Utter nonsense."

"Do you think all of Divination is utter nonsense, Bella? Even now, you put no stock in prophecies?"

She ducked her head, looking sufficiently chastened even though he hadn't actually scolded her. Hermione hide a smile. He had said her mother managed only a D in Diviniation. Apparently she was still sore about it.

 _Her mother._

She'd thought of the woman as _her mother._

Hermione blinked several times, afraid tears would be quick to form. Though she'd addressed the woman as her mother on a number of occasions now, and though she spent many hours mulling over in her mind the fact that this woman had birthed her, this was the first time she'd thought 'my mother' and not first pictured Tilly Jean Granger, the dentist who raised her. Thankfully, the Dark Lord moved on then, and she was able to keep composed.

"The name's Goyle," grunted the next person seated, though she already knew that. "Six kids. Eldest son knows _her_ from school. He never pegged her for one of _us_."

"Your eldest would be lucky to peg a carrot for a vegetable," snipped the woman. "Though to be fair, he's probably never seen a vegetable."

Goyle stood and slammed his hand down on the table, rattling his soup bowl and bread plate. "As I said, we have a _thyroid condition,_ you emaciated bitch! And you know well as I you didn't peg her for your own either, until she was kidnapped and reported dead and all of a sudden, now, we're to believe she's yours! She doesn't look a damn thing like you, and everyone knows she's a Muggleborn friend of Potter! What are you playing at here, woman?"

"Now, now, Goyle." The man held up his hand. "All will be explained in due time. Please, sit. Enjoy the soup."

He snapped his fingers. Every soup bowl was suddenly full of steaming, sweet-smelling broth. Hermione couldn't help breathing in deeply as her stomach rumbled. She'd been too nervous to eat lunch and had thrown up her breakfast. The Dark Lord lifted his spoon, dipped it into the liquid, and brought it to his lips while the others watched. Hermione wondered if they were not allowed to begin eating until he'd done so. He sipped.

"Excellent. Your house-elves are among the best in Britain, Mrs. Malfoy, Draco."

"Thank you, my Lord," said Narcissa. She glanced at Draco, who had one hand on his water goblet but did not appear to have taken a sip yet. He seemed frozen. Somber. She nudged him.

"Thank you, my Lord," he copied.

"We shall continue with introductions as we eat." The Dark Lord gestured toward Hermione's bowl. "I know you're hungry."

"Yes, sir." Vaguely aware they might be poisoning her for the sake of spectacle, she dipped into the broth and brought it to her mouth. It burned a little going down – perhaps she should have blown on it – but it tasted delicious, and when she felt no ill effects, she went into for another spoonful.

"I do not believe it is necessary to introduce me to Miss Granger," said the next man in his low, familiar timbre. Unlike the others, who all donned their best dress robes, gowns, or suits, he was in his usual frock coat, buttoned to his throat, and black trousers. "I have been the girl's professor for the past five years."

"Of course, _Severus_." The Dark Lord hissed his name. Nagini hissed too, as if in echo. "You know Miss Black – not Granger – better than any of us. Out of curiosity, how would you describe the newest addition to our little… family?"

"The spitting image of her mother, if not in looks, than in personality." He smirked. "A quick-tempered, utterly insufferable know-it-all of merely average intelligence and forgettable appearance, with an undeserved sense of superiority and grossly untamable hair."

"'Insufferable?!'" said the woman, at the same moment Hermione snapped, "'Merely average intelligence?!'"

"And _you're_ one to talk of hair, Snape," added the woman. "At least _ours_ can't be used to fuel a grease fire."

"Of course not." His smirk grew. "Better a bird's nest, dry and brittle as it is."

"I don't believe any other professor I've ever had would say 'merely average intelligence.'" Hermione was positively pouting over this, which did indeed increase her resemblance to the woman to her left.

"Don't give it a second thought, my love. Neither of us are of 'merely average intelligence' and he bloody well knows it!" snapped the woman.

"Am I giving too much credit?" he asked innocently. "Perhaps 'average' was overstating it."

Hermione's jaw dropped indignantly. The woman stood, wand at the ready, and glared at him. "Have you got something to say to us, _Professor_?"

"I've said what I wanted to say."

"What did you mean by 'an undeserved sense of superiority'?" asked Hermione, growing increasingly agitated the more she stewed over it. "I don't feel as though I'm better than anyone else! I simply _work harder_ , and as for being an 'insufferable know-it-all,' as you've labeled me on _more than one_ occasion, I happen to-"

Severus Snape laughed. "Did I not tell you they are both are quick to temper, my Lord? Over-sensitive, too." He gestured first to the woman, then to Hermione. "Like mother, like daughter. Wouldn't you agree, Goyle?"

"You've proven your point, Severus. They share strong similarities than cannot be readily seen." The Dark Lord motioned for the woman to return to her chair and put away her wand. "While your methods are... questionable... I commend you on the little demonstration."

Though they could now see why he'd goaded them so, both the woman and Hermione glared at the potions-master. The Dark Lord chuckled softly. He was next in line.

"I do not believe I need any introduction, but if you'll allow me, I would like to illuminate all of you on the circumstances surrounding our guest's… origin."

Hermione breathed in sharply.

"But not yet. From the other end of the table…"

"Vincent Crabbe." A portly man held up his hand. He looked exactly like his son, but some twenty years older. "My wife is home with our newborn. First girl after three sons, first child in ten years. The missus would have been here, otherwise."

"Congratulations to both you and Mrs. Crabbe," said the Dark Lord, and everyone else, Hermione included, offered their congratulations too, though she couldn't imagine more little Crabbes running around, especially considering how stupid the one she knew happened to be. She pictured the baby looking like her older brother, but swaddled in pink.

"Tiberius Nott," said the next man. "My son Theodore is in the same Hogwarts year as Draco and Miss Grang… _Black._ I work as a curse breaker for Gringotts and have proudly followed the Dark Lord since I was a fifth year. My wife is in Azkaban." His beady eyes settled on Hermione. _"She_ was not the only baby born in a cell, but my son has not yet been fortunate enough to be reunited with his mother."

This surprised Hermione. She'd known Theo Nott since first year and had no idea his mother was in prison, nor that he'd been born there. How horrible. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the rodent-faced boy.

"Soon," said the Dark Lord. "When I have control of the Ministry, she will be released and rewarded, reunited with her son, and given a hero's welcome home."

"Thank you, my Lord." Tiberius Nott bowed his head reverently. "Theo and I look forward to the day."

The next person at the table, a familiar thin blond with a perpetual frown introduced himself only by stating his name:

"Draco."

"And this is my father, Cygnus," said Narcissa, indicating the man between her and her son. "Your grandfather, Hermione. He... isn't quite himself, I'm afraid. It's unlikely he'll remember who you are. But he's... happy to make your acquaintance."

Cygnus neither moved nor spoke. He was sipping his soup, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Bellatrix and Narcissa exchanged a glance. Hermione wondered what was wrong with this poor, plump, white-haired old man. Could Muggle diseases like Alzheimer's affect wizards, too? They said he'd been reclusive for years... perhaps this was a sign of depression?

Or madness?

"And I am your aunt Narcissa," the beautiful, dignified blonde continued. "As you are well aware. Draco is my only child, making him your only cousin."

 _Besides Tonks,_ Hermione thought, but she said nothing.

"It is my turn, then." The Dark Lord stood to address the brethren. "Seventeen years ago tonight, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, wife of the currently incarcerated Rodolphus Lestrange, gave birth in her Azkaban cell, as you were all informed prior to this evening. The baby - a girl - was taken away, and Bellatrix was told her daughter had died. Three months ago, after Bella brilliantly captured her, bringing her back to Malfoy Manor for questioning, it was discovered that Hermione – raised by Muggles, believed to be a Mudblood, sorted into Gryffindor – was, in fact, that baby. We know this beyond a shadow of a doubt, and we therefore expect you to not only accept her as one of our own, but to revere her, for the Lestranges, and, in particular, Bellatrix, have been my most devout followers, my hardest working, and the only ones who not only looked for me after that incident with the Potter boy on Halloween, but swore their allegiance to me while on trial before the Wizengamot."

There were murmurs at this, some of the disgruntled sort.

"Can any of you lot say the same?" asked the woman haughtily, fire flashing in her dark eyes. "Goyle? Rowle? Snape? Hardly! Only _I_ swore under oath that you would rise again, my Lord. Only _I_ knew you'd not been defeated, and only _I_ refused to pretend away my allegiance, even in a desperate attempt to save my own skin. I went proudly to Azkaban. I made no excuses nor begged forgiveness. I never wavered in my devotion."

"Indeed, Bella." He smiled at her, prompting her to beam back up at him. "And for that, you have been rewarded, and will continue to be rewarded, and part of that reward is this reunification with your daughter." He again addressed the group. "Though it will take time before Hermione here has been fully indoctrinated into our ways, as she still holds some small allegiance to Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix, we shall be patient."

There were boos and hisses in response to the headmaster's name from all but Severus, Draco, Hermione, and silent Cygnus. These drowned out the end of the Dark Lord's sentence. He held up his hands to quiet the crowd.

"As I was saying, as a reward to Bellatrix, we will have patience with Hermione." He placed a hand on the back of her neck and gave a slight squeeze. It was an almost fatherly gesture, and one that made her half-digested soup want to make a reappearance. He then reached for his wineglass and urged the others to do the same. All but Hermione did.

"Hermione Black, as we've chosen to rename her for the time being, is one of us now, and I believe, given the right guidance…" He tipped the glass toward Bellatrix. "And proper tutelage…" Tipped toward Severus. "She will do incredible things for us. Her true family." He focused his gaze on her and she blinked up at him, trying to see herself in his appearance, trying to find any hint of the handsome man the woman – her mother – swore he'd once been.

He raised his glass higher.

"To Hermione!"

Every Death Eater at the table followed suit.

"To Hermione!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **11 May, 1971**

 **(twenty-five years ago)**

He was reclined in a leather wing-backed chair, looking her over as if she were a sample cake in a bakery window.

Discerningly. Thoughtfully.

Hungrily.

"My Lord?" She scratched absentmindedly at her chest, just above the scooped neckline of her nightdress. He'd summoned her at 2 in the morning, roused her from a sound sleep, by making her Dark Mark burn. She'd instantly shaken Rodolphus awake, telling him, "He wants to see us now."

But Rodolphus' Dark Mark didn't burn.

"He wants to see _you,"_ said her husband gruffly, taking hold of her wrist and twisting her arm back painfully. "You alone. Go."

"But…"

"Go."

She hadn't even changed, just thrown on an old dressing gown and disapparated, appearing in this room. Where was this room? It was dark, there were no windows, no Muggle lighting. His face was illuminated only by the fire roaring in the hearth behind her. Even with the ominous flickering across his features, he was handsome. The most handsome man she'd ever set eyes upon.

Out darted his tongue, flicking against his lower lip. She willed herself to stay still, stay calm, but a dirty mental image flashed across her mind's eye. How many times had she fantasized about that tongue, flicking against her skin like that?

"I know what you're thinking, Mrs. Lestrange. I can see into your mind."

She lifted her eyes to meet his. She nearly apologized, but, not seeing fury there, she pushed back her shoulders, dropped her hand from her chest to her hip, and smiled coyly.

"Do you like what you see?"

"I have often thought myself beyond the trivial needs of man – the pleasures of the flesh, if you will. But I cannot pretend I haven't noticed you in recent years. You've… blossomed. You are no longer the little girl falling at my feet, eager to please."

"I am still eager to _please_ , my Lord."

She was bold. He liked that.

"Tell me about your marriage."

"It was arranged."

He chuckled. "I meant, is it in deed only, or on rocky ground, or is it a loving, solid-"

"We have an understanding, my Lord."

"But do you-"

"There is nothing between us beyond a shared name and a shared bed and the understanding I will someday provide him one son, as required."

He cocked an eyebrow. She was not only bold, she was impertinent. He could not imagine any of his other followers interrupting him as she did.

"You are… how old?"

"Twenty." She tossed back her hair, smiling slightly, clearly more at ease now that she knew punishment was not forthcoming. "Almost."

"Still so young."

"Not so young, my Lord. I'm two years out of Hogwarts, one year married. I have a job-"

"Yes, and that perplexes me." It was his turn to interrupt. "You are wealthy and you married wealthy. You are a pureblood witch from a long line of the same. You and your husband can both rely on family gold and are expected to grow it with strategic investments, as the Shafiqs, Malfoys, and Selwyns do. Why is it, then, that a respectable woman like you saw fit to-"

"I'll not be a kept woman, my Lord. I am intelligent and independent, and I-"

"And you have thrice interrupted me in under three minutes."

Her face flushed. She dropped to her knees. "I apologize, my Lord. I'm merely… _excited_. To have been summoned by you."

"You are not _excited_." He gestured for her to rise, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Yet."

Pink dotted her cheeks, but she returned to her feet.

"Please, Mrs. Lestrange, do continue your explanation."

"I've always been talented with a wand, my Lord, and academically inclined. I earned ten OWLs at Hogwarts, all but two Outstanding. The others were Exceeds Expectations. I did not wish to see my abilities go to waste upon marrying, so while I will do my duty as his wife in providing one son, I cannot… I cannot…" She took a deep breath, jutted up her chin, and finished haughtily. "I cannot resign myself to a frivolous existence as some silly, vapid housewife, spending all day at the shops, ordering about house-elves, and hosting fancy dinner parties. I want something more out of life, and for now, that means working in the back room at Borgin and Burkes, breaking curses on the merchandise they manage to accrue by a variety of means. It isn't much, it isn't impressive, but it keeps my mind sharp and my skills sharper."

"Sharp-minded, sharp-tongued." He smiled. "I heard about the way you publicly eviscerated Abraxas Malfoy in Hogsmeade just last week. I don't believe any woman has ever put him in his place before; you left him sputtering and fuming for days."

"He made a vulgar comment about my younger sister, my Lord. He's lucky I emasculated him only with my words, and not my wand." Her wand hand twitched just thinking about it. "His son is likely to marry my youngest sister, Narcissa, but she's only a girl, fifteen years of age. Abraxas Malfoy shouldn't be looking at her like that, nor making comments. Not at fifteen. Not ever. I would do anything for my sisters, you see. Anything for them, and anything for you."

His smile broadened. "Emasculated with your words, not your wand. I like that. You say your work at Borgin and Burkes is not impressive, but _you_ impress _me._ Was Phillip Travers your first kill?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Your first kill, and he was one of us. Did you not consider showing him mercy, bringing him to me, letting him defend himself?"

"He was a traitor, my Lord. He deserved no mercy; there is no defense for treason. I'd rather reason with an enemy whose views differ from mine on principal than waste my time on someone who sees fit to betray all those who have guided, supported, and protected him along the way. He went to the Ministry and gave them information about you, information no one else was privy too, with the intention of bringing you harm." She tossed her hair. "With all due respect, I did my due diligence, my Lord. I used Legilimency on both him and the Ministry official to whom he gave information to ensure I was not being led astray, and they confirmed all that my original source had said."

The Dark Lord waved his wand, conjuring up a chair exactly like his, but slightly lower to the ground, and motioned for her to take it. She did. He then Accioed over a bottle of elf-made red wine and two glasses. The wine poured itself, and one glass levitated over to her. He grasped the other.

"Who is your source?"

"Peter Travers, his brother."

"How did you get that information from Peter?"

"I thought he was keeping something from you at the last meeting. I could sense something shifty about him. Two days later, I gained entry into his home. I got him a bit… pissed…" She sipped the wine. "And let him think we were going to…" With a quick up-and-down of her thick eyebrows, she conveyed her message without having to say the word. "He sung like an Augury. I then Obliviated him so he'd not remember selling out his brother, and so he'd not tip him off, and then I went in search of both the Ministry official and Phillip. I was fortunate to find them together. Saved me a trip. She's a woman - Marlene McKinnon. They're an item. I Obliviated her, too, as I thought her death would bring too much focus, spark an investigation. Can't have that."

"But you never consulted me. What if I did not want Travers killed? It was presumptuous of you to do as you thought I wanted without-"

"I did not do what I presumed _you wanted,_ my Lord. I did what needed to be done." She ran her finger along the edge of her wineglass until it whistled, not breaking eye contact, as he pondered whether to scold her for interrupting again. Ultimately, he decided against it. He was too fascinated by her, by this not-quite-twenty-year-old woman who both worshipped him and seemed to see herself on equal footing, this upper-crust pureblood who worked because she _wanted_ to, who killed because she thought it was _right,_ this young, dark-haired, wild-eyed beauty who thoroughly intrigued him.

They sat in silence until he finished his wine. When he stood, she stood. _Well-bred, well-mannered,_ he mentally noted. _And yet…_

"If I wanted to fuck you, Mrs. Lestrange, you would consent?"

Her breath caught in her throat, but she managed a quick reply.

"I'd do anything you asked of me, my Lord."

"But alas…" He stepped to her, pressed his lips to her forehead, and took her wineglass in the hand not holding his own. "I seek to eschew the banal pleasures of the flesh that have proven the downfall of many a man. Go home to your husband. I shall summon you again as needed."

"Yes, my Lord." She tried not to look disappointed, but he could read it all over her, plainer than the print of the Prophet. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, _Bellatrix."_

It was the first time he'd spoken her name, and it made gooseflesh appear all down her arms. He was still standing directly in front of her, so close her breasts brushed his chest with every inhale. This time he pressed his lips to the spot just before her ear, before whispering…

"I believe you are going to do incredible things for me, Bellatrix Lestrange. I look forward to seeing all that of which you are capable."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

If she was being perfectly honest, it was quite possibly the most delicious meal she'd ever eaten. The house-elves had really outdone themselves. She wondered how many there were. The only one she'd ever known of belonging to the Malfoys was Dobby, who had now been a free elf (and Hogwarts employee) for years. She'd seen only one during her incarceration, as it occasionally popped in and out of her cell with care items or instructions, but for the most part, the food appeared and dirty clothes disappeared without her seeing a soul.

She must have presented herself reasonably well during dinner and conversation, because dancing followed, as the woman - Bellatrix, Mother - said it would.

The Dark Lord took the first dance, typically reserved for the father, after informing his followers he thought it only fitting due to the circumstances, and hoped they would all keep in their minds those followers unable to be present this evening due to their current imprisonment. Narcissa had stifled a whimper at that.

His hands were cold as a corpse and nearly as stiff, his fingers barely bent, but she held his hand and let her other rest on his shoulder as the woman had demonstrated, and she did not pull away when his other hand found her waist.

"Your eyes are mine," he said softly. She knew no one could hear him over the music, but glanced around anxiously anyway. Just beyond the fireplace, Narcissa was teaching Draco to dance. The woman was doing the same with her father, Cygnus, who still had not spoken a word, the Rowles looked quite comfortable swaying together, and Alecto was stepping all over the toes of a thoroughly annoyed-looking Professor Snape.

"Sir?"

"Your eyes. The color, the shape, even your brows. It has been nearly sixteen years since I last saw those eyes. My appearance began to change before that incident with the Potter boy, but my eyes… I thought I would always see them staring back at me in the mirror. I was incorrect. Upon my rebirth, I accepted I'd never look upon them again. On that, too, I was wrong."

"She tells me you were very handsome."

"There are more important things than looks, Miss Black." He turned them. Now she could see the table, where Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott sat huddled together at one end, whispering and shooting them uncomfortable glances. "What is most important to you?"

"My freedom," she answered before she could stop herself. "Before I was being confined to a dungeon, though, I would have said my education. I would have rather died than be expelled."

"But you have broken your share of school rules, have you not?"

She looked surprised. He chortled.

"Draco Malfoy is not your biggest fan, Miss Black. For that reason, I do believe you ought to dance with him next. Try to… what's the Muggle phrase? Bury the hatchet?"

"When it comes to Malfoy, the only place I'd like to bury a hatchet is in his back." Her eyes narrowed. "He called me a Mudblood third year, and he hexed my teeth-"

"He'll not be calling you a Mudblood anymore. And from what his mother told me, you sufficiently punished him for that comment. Or didn't you find it satisfying to punch him squarely in the face?"

Her cheeks went slightly pink, a little with embarrassment, and a little with pride.

"He deserved it."

The man chuckled again. The music was ending. He kissed the back of Hermione's hand and guided her over to Draco. Her enemy.

Her cousin.

"A dance?" said the man. Draco looked as though he'd rather eat a live blast-ended skrewt, but he nodded.

"This is torture," he confessed, once they were out of earshot of the adults. (The Dark Lord was now dancing with the woman, Narcissa with their father, the Rowles still together, and Alecto was now with a grumpy looking Goyle.)

"I hate you, too."

"The only reason I'm here and not at Hogwarts was because my mother insisted. It's not been easy for her, without father. And it hasn't been easy for me either, with my father in prison, my friends' fathers all labeled Death Eaters by stupid Potter."

"'Stupid Potter' was right, though, wasn't he?" She held his hand too tightly, crushing his fingers, and stepped on his toe with her heel. "Oh, so sorry, I'm not much of a dancer! We weren't all raised with your good breeding."

"Sod off, Granger."

"Choke and die, you flea-infested ferret."

"Might I cut in?" Professor Snape drawled. He dropped his voice. "Before one of you two dunderheads kills the other and sets of a Black family feud that can only end with your mothers dueling to the death."

The two teenagers parted, glaring at each other.

"Thanks for the dance, _Malfoy,"_ spat Hermione.

"Any time, _Mudblood_ ," snapped Draco.

"Go help your mother with your grandfather," Snape ordered Draco. They all glanced across the room, where Narcissa seemed to be pleading with Cygnus not to taste the Floo powder.

Draco muttered a curse word under his breath. "Grandfather!"

Snape placed one hand on Hermione's hip, lower than the Dark Lord's had been, and took her small, soft palm in his larger, slightly calloused one. He looked down his nose upon her, but after a moment, the sneer melted away.

"You do look better than I would have expected, considering."

"You like the gown?"

"I meant you don't look as though they're torturing you." He pulled her slightly closer, so their upper bodies were barely touching. "But yes, the gown is… fine."

"Do they really think I'm dead?" She barely whispered it, terrified to be overheard. He inclined his head slightly.

"But Potter has his doubts. He refuses to grieve – for you, or for the mutt."

"His name was Sirius. Call him Sirius, not 'the mutt.'"

"He refuses to grieve you or your cousin, his godfather. Better?"

"He thinks we're both still alive?"

"Denial is a powerful thing." He tightened his grip on her. "He wants to believe people can come back from beyond the veil, and he wants to believe Bellatrix wouldn't have killed you, that she'd be holding you instead, for some reason. The Ministry has been here twice already, searching. They've found no trace of you. Ob-viously." He moved his head closer to hers, breathing in deeply.

"You smell like Narcissa."

She wrinkled her nose and frowned up at him. "How do you know what my aunt smells like?"

"Calling her your aunt?" His lip curled into a smirk as he said mockingly, "How quickly you've become part of the family!"

"I don't know what to make of you, Professor."

"It is better that way, Miss Granger."

The song was ending. He took her hand and placed a kiss to the back of it, as the Dark Lord had, but the professor's lips were warm, and she found herself wanting to ask for a second dance, if for no other reason than to spend another three minutes in the arms of someone familiar, someone who might understand how it felt to be torn between two enemy factions, to have to hide one's true colors… even, perhaps, from one's self.

"Your tutoring begins tonight, Miss Granger. I trust you'll be ready and willing to learn."

"Yes, sir." She caught the woman's eye – her mother's eye – over his shoulder and smiled truculently. "What sort of know-it-all would I be if I weren't?"

He smiled back, and she thought it might be the first time she'd seen a genuine one on his face.

"An even more insufferable one, I'd wager."

The woman joined them, then, somehow managing to look at once confident and ill-at-ease.

"She's one of us now, isn't she, Snape?" The woman took her hand and held it between her own, beaming. "I am proud of you, Hermione. You did well tonight."

"Thank you." Hermione returned the smile.

"What do you think, Snape?" the woman demanded, her gaze boring into him, desperate for confirmation. "Isn't she one of us now?"

"I don't know," he answered carefully, looking her over discerningly. Thoughtfully.

Hungrily.

"Is she?"

* * *

 **A/N:**

Tuesdays and Thursdays means too quick a turnaround without time to update my other fics in between, so amending slightly - I'll update this fic on Tuesdays and FRIDAYS from now on. Thanks for understanding!

Thank you to everyone who is following, favoriting, reading, and reviewing this fic! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! I look forward to every emailed notification. Every fifth chapter I'll respond to Qs if you have any (unless the answer would be a spoiler).

Coming Up in **Chapter Five** : Hermione's first tutoring session with Snape and a flashback to the Bellatrix/Voldemort scene referenced in the summary.

Coming Up in **Chapter Six** : Halloween 1996, Halloween 1981, and Halloween 1974.

Thanks again! Much love!

 **-AL**


	6. MASTER AND MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

**CHAPTER FIVE:**

 **MASTER AND MOTHER AND DAUGHTER**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

She wasn't used to wearing such high, strappy, uncomfortable shoes, and so she collapsed into a chair after only four more dances, opting to people-watch instead.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott were enjoying the alcohol, looking livelier with every sip of Ogden's Best Firewhisky. Nott was also entertaining his friends with off-color jokes that earned guffaws from Crabbe and chuckles from Goyle. Alecto Carrow was dancing with the Dark Lord, looking as though Christmas had come early.

The woman was dancing with Snape; they were talking the entire time. Hermione tried to read their lips, but to no avail. She could, however, sense that the topic of conversation was not light, nor were the two happy to be in such close proximity. Professor Snape held the woman at much more of a distance than he had Hermione, she seemed to be trying to lead, and both wore expressions of intense dislike.

Like the woman and the professor, Euphemia and Thorfinn Rowle talked as they dance. Neither of them looked happy either. She wondered whether that was due to the fact that they hated being here to honor a 'former' Mudblood, or whether they just plain didn't like each other. Either way, she assumed they were unpleasant people and had no desire to know any more about them.

The same could not be said of her grandfather. She found him utterly fascinating and wanted to know much more - she wanted to know everything. He was almost childlike in some ways, petulant and easily confused, and Narcissa seemed to be struggling to keep him in line. She sat him in a seat two down from Hermione and plopped down beside him in a most unladylike fashion, cushioning her chin in her hand.

"You could be more help," she snapped at her son, who'd come to join them. He looked uncomfortably at the man beside his mother, the white haired, portly man, who thus far still hadn't said a word (as far as Hermione had heard).

"Make _her_ help," sneered Draco, jerking his head toward Hermione. "She's his grandchild too, apparently."

"Do not." Narcissa narrowed her eyes at him. "Do not do this to me, not tonight."

He immediately dropped the disdainful expression, replacing it with one of concern. "Mother, I'm sorry. I don't know how to help him."

"No one does." She sighed. "No, Father!"

He had plucked off the head of one of the roses in a vase in front of Hermione and was about to put the flower in his mouth. Narcissa slapped his hand and he dropped it.

"Here." Hermione picked up one of the chocolate covered strawberries from a tray left on the table. These had appeared sometime after the dancing started, along with more champagne and tiny cakes. She handed the strawberry to Cygnus Black, who brought it slowly to his mouth. He glanced at Narcissa, as if expecting a second slap. She sighed again.

"Go on, that's edible."

"So." Draco sat across from his grandfather, picked up a strawberry, and shot an inauthentic smile at Hermione. "Who's your father? Can't imagine it's my dear uncle Dolph, or the Dark Lord wouldn't have introduced you as Hermione Black. Didn't realize Auntie was the type to pass herself around, but I suppose it's possible she-"

"Hold your tongue." Narcissa appeared more disgusted by him than Draco was by Hermione. "You know full-well the reason she isn't being called Hermione Lestrange is because your aunt and her husband were estranged at the time of her birth and he's not here now to claim her, but that does _not_ mean-"

"They must have made up, though, right?" Hermione leaned forward, her elbows on the table. Draco swiped at one, a nonverbal reminder to sit up right, the way his father had done to him countless times as a boy. Without even thinking about it, she complied, dropping her hands to her lap, and continued. "My... er... mother and her husband?" That felt bizarre to say aloud. "They were arrested together after torturing the Longbottoms."

"Oh, they had an excellent working relationship." Narcissa wrapped her father's hand around a water goblet. He'd been trying to sip from an empty champagne flute. "Despite a rough patch in the late seventies, they respected each other. Or… he respected her. I can't say whether it goes the other way. There were few the Dark Lord trusted as he did Bella. He highly valued others – my husband among them, and Severus, and the Lestrange brothers – but I believe she is the only person he can truly trust. Only one whose loyalties have never wavered or been reasonably called into question." Narcissa bit her lip and glanced anxiously at Hermione. "You should keep that to yourself."

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to challenge her aunt, but Cygnus suddenly turned to her, took her hand, and smiled.

"Druella! I've been waiting for you."

"I…"

"Oh, Father." Narcissa, looking pained, reached for another strawberry. "That's not Mother. Mother is gone. You know Mother is gone. I've told you hundreds of times."

"Gone where?"

"To the cottage house, Grandfather." Draco hurried to the other side of the table. He pulled Cygnus' hand off of Hermione's and sat in the empty chair between them. "She had to leave early tonight, remember? But you'll see her later, when you get home."

"Oh." He took the chocolate covered strawberry Narcissa was offering and took a bite, staring off into space, his eyes going blank again.

"Why do you lie to him?" snapped Narcissa under her breath.

"Why do you insist upon breaking his heart every time he asks about her?" Draco snapped back.

Hermione, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable (and sympathetic toward all three of them in the moment) diverted her attention to the dance floor, where the Dark Lord was kissing the hand of a giggling Alecto Carrow. He then held up his hands, halting the music. He did not need a Sonorus charm to be heard; when he spoke, the room went silent.

"Thank you, friends, for joining us this evening. As a reminder, I invited only those I knew I could _trust_." He hissed that last word, and, like she often did, Nagini hissed in echo. "Most of the wizarding world believes Hermione Granger to have died. And they are correct. Hermione _Granger_ is no more. She never was. Hermione Black, on the other hand, had finally been returned to us…"

The woman clapped her hands together under her chin and beamed at Hermione.

"And when the time comes, we shall introduce the newest member of our little family to the world. But for now, should I hear that any of you failed to hold your tongues…"

Nagini flicked out hers, as if to punctuate the sentence.

"You will find yourselves suffering a punishment that will have you begging first for mercy, then for death. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," all in attendance – save for Hermione and Cygnus – answered obediently.

"Excellent." The Dark Lord smiled, an unnerving sight, and tipped his head in her direction. "Goodnight, Miss Black."

"Goodnight, m… my Lord."

The smile broadened, he nodded toward the woman, then slipped from the room with the snake at his heels. The doors slammed shut behind him and those in the drawing room let out a collective sigh of relief that even Hermione felt. An entire evening gone by in the Dark Lord's presence, and not one of them had been tortured.

Professor Snape swept to the table, moving as if gliding. Hermione opened her mouth to ask him how he did that, but he cut her off.

"Your tutoring shall commence momentarily. I have a few things to discuss with the Rowles, which should give you enough time to return to your chamber and change into something more…" He looked her up and down, lingering perhaps a moment too long on her chest. "Suitable for education."

"Draco, help me bring your grandfather home. When we return, you and Professor Snape will apparate back to Hogwarts."

"I look forward to it," the young man said dryly.

"You ought to," said Hermione. "I'd give anything to go back to school."

"You aren't missing much." He stood and helped his mother guide Grandfather to his feet. "Potter's got one foot in the door of the madhouse, Weasel's using your death to get sympathy 'jobs' from insipid girls, and someone's trying to off Dumbledore."

"Draco!" Narcissa and Professor Snape had snapped his name in unison, so harshly he actually flinched.

"Insipid," said Hermione, trying to force herself not to emotionally process anything he'd said. "Big word for your tiny brain."

"My tiny brain earned nine OWLs, more than your precious Potter and his ginger sidekick."

"Wow, nine!" Hermione pretended to be impressed. "That's adorable. Your mummy must be very proud. My mother wouldn't be, though. I tried for eleven and I earned eleven, but nine? Good for you."

"I tried for nine and I earned nine. Forgive me for not wasting my time on nonsense courses like Muggle Studies and Magical Creatures so I could focus on top marks in classes that matter, like Potions and Defens-"

"Would the two of you like for Narcissa and me to step from the room so you can whip out your wands to see whose is bigger?" asked Professor Snape, glaring down at both of them as he so frequently did the particularly stupid students in his classroom.

"I'd love that," said Draco, drawing his. "Oh, wait, you haven't got one, have you, cousin?"

Hermione's hand curled into a tight fist. "I didn't need a wand to break your nose third year and I don't need one now."

"Children!" The woman joined them. She put one arm around each of their shoulders, hugging them to her. "None of that. Draco, you help your mother get him home."

"I was planning to."

"And I'll escort you back to your room, Hermione." The woman kissed her on the temple. "You've made me very proud tonight, just as I knew you would, my perfect girl."

The woman kissed her father goodbye and whispered something in her sister's ear before taking Hermione by the arm and leading her from the room. All the way to the cellar, she chatted about how things could start changing now, how the Dark Lord was starting to have faith that Hermione's Muggle brainwashing could truly be reversed, that education would help and soon she might even be permitted to move into the main Manor. Hermione half-listened, as Draco's words reverberated around her head. Harry was halfway to the madhouse? Ron was using her death to get with other girls? Someone was out to kill Professor Dumbledore? Surely these things were said simply to goad her, none of them could be true.

The woman did not seem to notice how distracted her daughter was; she was soaring on an emotional high, and before long, they were back to the bars.

"I hate having to keep you locked up, my love…" The woman unlocked the door with a flick of her wand and a nonverbal incantation. "But it's for the best for everyone, for now. Professor Snape will be down soon. Would you like to change into something more comfortable?"

"Honestly?" Hermione tried to keep her mind clear in case it was about to be intruded. "I love this dress so very much, Mummy, I'd like to wear it just awhile longer, if I may. Please?"

"Of course!" The woman embraced her. "I'll sit with you until he comes. Where's that chess set from your Grandfather?"

That had been one of her birthday gifts, though now that Hermione had met the man she was sure he had no idea he'd gifted her his handmade marble set.

"I'm not much of a player. I've never been. That was always more of a Harry and Ron thing." Saying their names aloud caused a painful pretzel to twist up in Hermione's gut. The woman didn't seem to notice, though she wrinkled her nose at mention of Potter.

"Then I shall teach you. It is a game of strategy and patience. As a child, I lacked the latter, which is why my father spent hours making me play against him. I was twenty-three before I won against him for the first time. He has one of the sharpest minds… Had. He had..." She cleared her throat. "No matter. Open it. You may go first. Remember, while the goal is the capture the King, the real power is in the Queen."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 June, 1996**

 **(three months ago)**

So it was true.

It was true.

The girl, Potter's girl, the _Mudblood_ , was her daughter. Her dead-daughter.

No.

Her long-thought-dead daughter.

Fuck.

"Hermione Granger," she muttered, stalking toward Malfoy Manor from the point at which she'd been able to apparate back to the grounds. "Hermione. Hermione." It didn't sound right. It wasn't what she'd wanted to name her. It was… weird. "Hermione."

She'd given considerable thought to what she would name her child, especially as there wasn't much to do in Azkaban besides think, and she'd settled on Hydra Druella for a girl or Cygnus Tom for a boy (provided the Dark Lord allowed it. If not, Cygnus Alphard was the second choice). She'd grown to love the name Hydra, a twisting serpent constellation and a multi-headed character in mythology who saw two heads grow back for every one that was cut off.

Hermione.

Hydra.

Hydra was better, but she'd have to get used to Hermione.

HERMIONE.

Sigh.

The name didn't matter. Not really.

The girl was hers.

Her daughter.

Stolen from her.

Why? Who had given the order to drown the baby? Who wanted her dead… and why? Why? What possible motive…

Unless, somehow, someone knew the baby was _his._ Someone who didn't want him to have an heir.

Unless…

Please, no.

She didn't want to consider it.

But all those months she'd been in Azkaban, awaiting the rescue of her leader - her lover - and he didn't come. He didn't come for her until she was at the Ministry. Until the baby was already gone. He couldn't have given the directive... right? He wouldn't. Not after he'd promised her she could keep the child. Not after he'd _promised._

The Azkaban guard said he didn't know who'd issued the order, but how could she trust his word? The more she thought about it, the more there seemed to be holes in that story. Andromeda said he hadn't known they were sisters, but how could he _not_ know? Didn't he have eyes? Or a bloody newspaper? It was no secret that Andromeda Tonks was the estranged Black sister, and while Meda had worn her hair differently in the seventies, they were still so very similar looking…

Fuck. She shouldn't have been so quick to kill him. Now she had more questions and couldn't torture him for answers.

Upon entering the house, she went straight for the cellar, but Narcissa and Hermione were not there. She swore.

Her Dark Mark burned.

No.

She laid her palm over it and closed her eyes, apparating to wherever he was. When she opened them, she was in the drawing room. Hermione was quivering and crying on the floor; she'd clearly just felt the effects of the Cruciatus, and Narcissa was wringing her hands in the corner.

"Bella, so kind of you to grace us with your presence."

"My Lord, please…"

"I have thus far gotten very little out of this girl. Perhaps she would benefit from a woman's touch."

"No, my Lord."

"No?" Had he still had eyebrows, one would have been cocked at this.

"Please, my Lord, you cannot torture her."

"Cannot?" He flicked his wand. Hermione curled into the fetal position, choking back sobs. "I believe I can."

"No, my Lord, stop!" She charged at him, knocking his wand out of his hand. It clattered on the floor, Narcissa audibly gasped, and Bellatrix immediately fell to her knees.

"You dare knock my wand from my hand?"

"My Lord, I-"

He struck her. Across the face with the back of his hand, hard enough to make her spin and bring her down to all fours. Her lip split from his ring. She sucked in, then spit out metallic-tasting blood. She scrambled to his wand, grabbing it, and held it up to him.

"Please, my Lord, you don't understa-"

"Silence." He lifted his hand as if to hit her again. Bellatrix whimpered and flinched, but no second strike came. She looked to the girl in panic. She had to make him understand, but she was afraid to disobey him again. He had been unforgiving before his fall, but he was even more so now, and more vicious too. Before his fall, he'd never hit her. He'd hurt her in other ways, he left emotional scars, he even used the Cruciatus on her a couple of times to make a point in front of the others, but he'd never bloodied her lip, never knocked her to her knees, never pulled her hair like he was doing now, forcing her to look at him.

Narcissa's right hand went to her chest, scratching red lines across pale white skin. She and Bellatrix momentarily locked eyes, and when the blonde's widened, Bellatrix knew it was because she'd seen what the elder Black sister was trying to convey to the Dark Lord. But he did not seem to be employing Legilimency in the moment.

"If she cannot be made to answer questions about Potter, Dumbledore, and the Order, she is useless to us. Would you like to kill her, Bella, or shall I?"

"No!" Bellatrix tried to rise, but his hand was still entangled in the back of her hair, and he forced her back to her knees.

Have you something to say, Mrs. Lestrange?"

He hadn't called her Mrs. Lestrange in a good twenty years. The title stabbed straight through her.

She glanced at the girl again. Hermione wasn't moving anymore. Her eyes were closed. It seemed that last Cruciatus had been too much; she'd passed out.

"Ennervate." He'd noticed it too, and apparently he wanted the girl alert for this. "If you are no use to us, Mudblood, there is no reason for you to live. So I will give you one last chance." He moved his wand slightly, and the girl was forced to a position flat on her back. She then began to rise in the air. The Dark Lord had always preferred a little spectacle when he killed, and tonight would be no exception. "Do you know-"

"My Lord, no!" Bellatrix grasped the front of his robes just above his knees. "Don't hurt her! You don't understand!"

He struck Bellatrix again, harder this time, and pointed his wand at Hermione.

"Crucio!"

Hermione began twisting in the air. She screamed, and Bellatrix sobbed. He flicked his wand again and Hermione landed hard on the floor, on her back, then immediately twisted back into the fetal position, trembling, tears staining her pale, terrified face.

"You think your position is so elevated that you can repeatedly say no to me, interrupt me, disobey me? You think because I saved you and you alone tonight, you are my equal?"

"No, sir, my Lord, please! Not your equal, never your equal, only your… your…" She bowed her head, pressing the top of his against his thigh. "Not your equal, my Lord, but your slave! I am but your slave, and you are my master! Please, Master!" She was down on her knees, tears in her eyes. "I am not your equal, I meant no disrespect, but you have to listen-"

"Then you will move aside so that I may put the Mudblood out of her misery." He shoved her aside. She landed for a second time on all fours, but as he trained his wand on the girl, as he said the word "Avada," she summoned a burst of strength and threw her body over Hermione's.

"Please, Master! _You cannot kill your own daughter!"_

Several seconds passed as if time had frozen, as if someone had put a Stasis charm on the entire room, as if they were all Petrified. No one spoke, no one moved, even Hermione's sobs had subsided.

After an interminably long silence, the Dark Lord lowered his wand hand about halfway to his hip and said, "Excuse me?"

"She… she has… the birthmark." Bellatrix, still hovering over Hermione, reached to unfasten the girl's jeans. Hermione, perhaps in a state of shock, did not fight her. She simply stared blankly ahead, breathing evenly, tears still streaming steadily. When Bellatrix had the girl's jeans down to her mid thighs, she turned her over, exposing the backs of her legs and seat of her knickers to the Dark Lord.

"The wine stain," he said slowly. "The Witch's Mark. You told me the baby had one, they run in the Rosier family."

"Yes!" exclaimed Bellatrix.

"But surely that doesn't mean…" whispered Narcissa, one hand over her mouth, staring unblinkingly at the girl.

"Tonight, when I left, I went to the Azkaban guard, the one who took her away, the one who said she died." She quickly relayed her visit to his house as she pulled Hermione's jeans back up, gently turned her onto her back, and zipped and buttoned them. The blood from her lip was mostly dry now, but as she spoke one drop fell from her face and onto Hermione's thigh, staining the denim. She repositioned herself so that she was cradling the girl, still on her knees, staring up at her lover. Hermione did not move, not even when Bellatrix began gently stroking her hair, not even when Narcissa dropped to the floor as if too exhausted to maintain a standing position, and not even when the Dark Lord himself knelt beside her for a closer look at her face.

"Who gave him orders to drown the baby?" asked the Dark Lord. Bellatrix nearly sighed with relief. Though he was an accomplished Occlumens, she could tell by his expression that this came as a genuine surprise to him, which meant he hadn't been the one to demand it.

"I don't know, my Lord. But he… the baby was sneaked out of Azkaban instead, brought to a Muggle orphanage, and adopted by dentists – Muggle teeth cleaners – by the name of Granger. It's her, my Lord. I've confirmed. I'm certain. This is our daughter."

Narcissa was scratching her chest so hard her long nails drew blood.

"Look at me," he demanded of the girl. Though she seemed dazed, she turned her head a quarter to the right, making eye contact with him. "Tell me about your parents, girl."

"Dentists." She could barely cough the word out. "Muggles."

"And your mother, she birthed you?"

Hermione managed to shake her head. Her nose twitched and her lips quivered, but she did not start crying again. "Adopted."

"Adopted." He stood, shaking his head, his wand slack in his hand. The girl closed her eyes. She'd passed out again.

"My Lord?" Bellatrix gazed pleadingly up at him. "Please don't kill her, my Lord. Please. I apologize for my behavior tonight, I'll never anger you like this again, but I've also never… I haven't begged you for anything since… since…"

"Since you begged to keep her in 1979, since you begged me not to make you have an abortion. You wanted my baby, didn't you, Bella?" He brushed his fingertips against Bella's face almost affectionately. Bella nuzzled into his touch like an attention-starved cocker spaniel.

Narcissa shivered.

"Yes, my Lord. I wanted her then and I want her now."

"She is loyal to Potter, to Dumbledore."

"But if I could fix her…"

"What if you cannot?"

"Let me try, my Lord. Let me try. Please? _Please_ …"

He sighed, drew back from her face and walked around the girl in a circle as if surveying her. "We need more time. She will be held in the cellar until further notice, we will ward it with both bars and magic. We will begin the process of deprogramming her from their pro-Muggle propaganda position as soon as she wakes in the morning. And we will have one of our contacts put out the word that she's been killed; they won't be searching for her if she's believed to be dead."

"Severus could do it, my Lord," whispered Narcissa. "He could tell the Order. They'll believe it, coming from him. He can say he was too late to save her."

"Yes." He nodded in her direction. "And with that one suggestion, Mrs. Malfoy, you have proven more useful tonight than your husband."

Narcissa, at mention of Lucius, made a noise like a strangled cat and went back to scratching her chest.

"Mrs. Malfoy, you levitate her. Bella, you walk first, to begin preparing the space. I shall follow, wand trained on her in case she awakens and decides to try and save herself – you should have seen her before you returned, my Bella. She was feisty and determined. Tried to nonverbally disarm me and she momentarily Stupified your sister." A small smiled formed on his face. "Narcissa tells me she's quite the talented witch, besting your nephew in every subject. Perhaps we can make use of her yet."

"Yes, my Lord." Bellatrix led the way to the cellar, ignoring the dried blood on her chin and the pain in her knees. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Miss Granger." Professor Snape entered the cell, waving his wand to close the prison-like door behind him. On the other side of the bars, near the cellar stairs, Bellatrix was making herself comfortable in a conjured armchair. She, too, was still in her gown, though she'd kicked off her shoes.

"Hello, Professor."

"I thought I told you to change into something more suitable."

"What's wrong with this, Professor?" She widened her eyes, the picture of (faux) innocence. "Is it not pretty?"

"It's entirely too low." He dropped his wand into his pocket, reached forward with both hands, and pinched the top of her dress, then hoisted it up to cover more of her cleavage. "I do not know what you think you're playing at, girl, but I see straight through you."

"With all due respect, Professor, if you could see right through me you'd know what I'm playing at."

The truth, though, was that she had no idea what she was playing at. She wanted to learn. She wanted some semblance of normalcy. And, for reasons she couldn't understand, she wanted his attention.

His eyes flashed, but then his expression softened into almost a smile. "Touché, Miss Granger. Sit down at your desk."

"I haven't got a desk."

He retrieved his wand and tapped it against her wooden crate, transfiguring it. "Now sit down at your desk."

She obeyed, perching on the end of her bed, her legs under the desk. He conjured up a chair and settled across from her. "I have the results of your OWLs. Os across the board, save for Defense Against the Dark Arts. It seems the practical exam held you back, there, most surprisingly. I was also surprised by your Potions grade, if I am being honest. I would have expected an Exceeds Expectations, though you rarely exceeded mine. Outstanding is far and beyond what I would have thought you could manage."

"I suppose I'm full of surprises, then, Professor. Or perhaps you're a better teacher than you thought you were." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to goad him, why she insisted upon wearing the dress after he'd told her to change, why she was being so bloody truculent, but she was finding herself in an increasingly combative mood, and she wanted to spar.

(Verbally, of course.)

(Unless punching Malfoy again was an option.)

"Pent up frustration mixed with a rush of adrenaline." He removed from his pocket a thimble-sized textbook, which he transfigured back to normal. "That is why you're trying to pick a fight with me, hoping for a flare up of as certain angry passion. You'd like for me to raise my voice so that you may, you'd like to take out on me all you've been bottling up, but I'll not give you what you want." His eyes swept over her body, again lingering where they shouldn't. "Provided what you want is indeed a furious battle of wits." He licked his bottom lip. "Of course, if there is something else you want…"

"What else would I want, sir?" She felt a little rattled now, and hated knowing that he knew it. He could indeed see right through her. Could the woman do so this easily? Could the Dark Lord? And Narcissa? How many of those in that room tonight were Legilimens, perusing her mind without her permission, violating her in an intimate way she would never know about unless they confessed to it?

"You want to learn, do you not?" He glanced over his shoulder, where their chaperone was deep into a novel written by one of the top authors in the entire wizarding world, a woman who wrote murder mysteries rife with smut that appealed to a certain type of witch. Bellatrix licked her thumb before turning each page, her eyes moving fast from the start of each page to the end. "Your mother's reading material will rot your mind rather than challenging it. This, on the other hand..."

He tapped the cover of the textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot.

"Will expand it."

"Yes, sir. Where shall we begin?"

"Page four-hundred-twelve."

Hermione did not have to open the book to know what was on page 412.

"But we've already studied the Goblin Rebellions, sir!"

"Why don't you set the curriculum, then. What would you like to learn?"

"Really?" She couldn't fight the hopeful smile. "In that case, in chapter thirty-six…"

Professor Snape stood, stretched, and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going, sir?"

'If you'd rather educate yourself, feel free to do so, but I'll not waste my time with a pupil disinterested in learning what I am set to teach."

Her face fell.

"No, sir, please! I… I want to learn more about Goblin Rebellions. On page four-hundred-twelve. Please." She turned to it. He kept his back to her for a long moment, during which she, hoping he was listening in on her thoughts right now, repeated a simple mantra: "Please come back. Please come back. Please come back. Please…"

"Very well." He whipped around and returned to his seat. "I see you have opened to the proper page. We begin, of course, in the year 1612…"

For an hour she read aloud, with him stopping her at periodic intervals to ask questions or provide additional information. It was not the most boring History of Magic class she'd ever sat through – Professor Binns was hard to beat in that department – but she couldn't help feeling disappointed. Was this what all her tutoring sessions would be like? Regurgitating old information for no clear purpose?

"I would never teach you anything without purpose, Miss Granger." Professor Snape caught her eye. "There is an important lesson in everything I have ever taught you, but it is up to you to suss it out. For homework, read the next two chapters and write me a foot-long essay on the importance of Goblin-made silver and _all_ of its uses."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, we move onto potions."

"But how can we do potions in here, without…"

He tutted, waved his wand, and turned her desk into a long table, spanning nearly the full length of her cell. He then reached into his pocket and removed a teeny pewter cauldron and tapped it with his wand, returning it to original size.

"On your wall are the ingredients and instructions for brewing the first potion demanded of NEWT-level students, the Draught of Living Death. You have two assignments." He removed a second small cauldron from his pocket and increased it to the size of the first. "In the left cauldron, you will brew this concoction exactly as the instructions in your textbook dictate."

"I don't have a-"

"Patience, Miss Granger!" He reached into his pocket, removed a tiny text book, and tossed it at her. She missed catching it by inches, but quickly recovered it from the floor. He snorted derisively and rolled his eyes.

"Not exactly Seeker material, are we?"

"Are _we_?" she asked. "I don't recall seeing _your_ name on any Quidditch trophies, Professor."

His eyes flashed, but he managed to keep a cool head – or, at least, appear to. He'd always known her as a hardworking student, the type so desperate to please she'd half-kill herself to hand in perfection with the hopes of high marks and a "well done" from teacher, but here in the cellar she was snarky, sarcastic, sassier than he'd ever seen her.

She reminded him a little of himself and a lot of her mother, and he wasn't sure whether he liked it this change at all, though it certainly was… interesting.

"Apologize for your impertinence, or I'll leave the book that size and you'll destroy your eyes reading the minuscule instructions."

"I'm sorry, sir." She ducked her head, sufficiently chastened – or to make him think she was. "I don't know what's gotten into me. Months locked down here with only her…" She gestured toward Bellatrix. "And her sister for company. I miss the outside. I miss the sun. My friends. My parents." She rose her eyes to meet his, and he felt intense agitation over the fact that hers were watering. "Has Ron really used my death to get girls? Is Harry going mad? Does Dumbledore believe I'm dead, or have you told him…?"

Severus Snape would like to say that he was not the type to be moved by a woman's tears, but just as he'd caved into making the Unbreakable Vow to curb Narcissa's sobs back in August, he felt himself softening ever so slightly now. Damn women and their histrionics. A childhood spent comforting his crying mother still affected him deeply, and while a student's tears were never enough to make him alter a grade or rescind a detention, he couldn't help feeling a little bit sorry for this poor pathetic swot.

"Give me the book so I may re-transfigure it." He held out his hand. She placed the tiny textbook on his palm. "In one cauldron, you will do the assignment as instructed by the textbook. In the other, you will follow the directions on the wall. For homework, write me a foot-long essay about which method is preferable, and why. Tomorrow, as I have already instructed, a house-elf will bring you two mice on which to try out your potions, as they need to sit overnight to be at their most potent. As for Potter and Weasley…"

She tilted up her chin. A tear escaped down her cheek.

"Potter does not want to believe that you are dead. He insists the Dark Lord must have you hidden somewhere. I believe I told you as much earlier this evening."

"And Ron?"

"Weasley…" He sneered. "Weasley is not worth your time or emotional investment. It is for your own good that you try to forget ever having been friends with them. While Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs are both known in part for their loyalties, you'll never make truer friends than with Slytherins. Slytherins are represented by serpents but have the memories of elephants; we never forget."

"Forgive me, sir, but I'm not sure I follow. You're saying…"

"I'm saying there is much you do not yet know and therefore will not understand, but I assure you, this is where you belong now." He glanced around the cell. "Well, perhaps not _here_ , exactly, in this makeshift prison…"

"You're right, sir. I do not understand."

"But you will, Miss Granger." He flicked his wand toward the wall, making the instructions appear. "In due time. But for now, Draught of the Living Death. Let's get started."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you so much to everyone who read the last chapter, and especially to those who shared their thoughts! Regarding how canon this fic will be in terms of plot and characters, in general I try to keep as close to canon as possible, BUT this is a really different sort of fic (for me) so all bets are off. I will say that everything is canon up until the end of the Department of Mysteries scene, so the events of books 1-5 did happen, and I will be following some parts of the book for years six and seven (for example, Slughorn is now teaching Potions, and Draught of the Living Death really was the first assignment he gave sixth year) but I'm not going to say in advance what I'm keeping and what I'm not in the interest of avoiding giving spoilers. Same goes for not revealing whether Snape is good, bad, both, neither, loyal to the Order, or a Death Eater through and through. Not to be coy, but you'll just have to read and find out! (lol) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know.

Coming up in **Chapter Six** : Halloween 1996 with flashbacks to Halloween 1981 and Halloween 1974.

Coming up in **Chapter Seven** : a row between two main characters leads to uncomfortable admissions.

Thanks!

 **-AL**


	7. ALL HALLOWS EVE

**CHAPTER SIX:**

 **ALL HALLOWS EVE**

 **Halloween, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Hermione wanted her homework to be perfect.

Professor Snape was coming tonight – later than usual, he said, due to the Halloween feast – and he would be checking her Ancient Runes work carefully. As far as she could tell, he did everything carefully. Thoughtfully. Purposefully.

She respected that.

And she looked forward to every lesson, unsurprisingly, even though he was, for the most part, just as surly in the cellar as he was in a classroom.

Every now and then, though, she'd manage to draw him into an interesting academic discussion, maybe even a debate, and the sneer would fade, the indifferent façade would drop, and he would become fascinating, engaging, and animated, speaking to her like a peer instead of like a student.

She lived for those conversations.

Tonight, as had become the custom two or three nights per week, she was permitted upstairs for dinner. They always ate in the formal dining room, she and the woman, Aunt Narcissa, and, on occasion, the Dark Lord.

He made surprisingly pleasant conversation, and there were brief moments during which she'd almost – _almost_ – forget who he was, that he was a murderer, that he was anti-Muggle and out to kill one of her best friends, that he'd already started one long, deadly war and was gearing up to commence another. There were times during which she would almost - _almost_ \- see him like a teacher, mentor, or older, wiser relative, though not quite a father. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

He told her a bit about his own school days, the classes he took, the awards he won. He told tales of narrowly won Quidditch matches and unimaginably difficult N.E.W.T. practicals, of boyhood antics, and funny stories about his favorite professors (Dumbeldore was not among them; Merrythought was).

He told her about being part of something called the Slug Club, for only the best and brightest students Hogwarts had to offer.

"If you were there now, there is no doubt in my mind you would be invited to join, brilliant and talented as you are," he said, and a tiny jolt of something like pride flared up inside her, quickly quashed by the mental reminder of who this man really was.

The woman had beamed.

"Severus is impressed by her, my Lord. Without an entire classroom of less-intelligent students to hold her back, she's moving through the curriculum twice as fast as other sixth years, despite only having her tutoring sessions two or three times per week. Soon, my Lord, I'd like to teach her some of what I know, to make her more like... me." She sent him a shaky smile, and breathed a sigh of relief when he inclined his head ever-so-slightly.

"The current schedule shall hold through the Christmas holiday. After Draco returns to Hogwarts, we shall see about expanding this one's curriculum."

Hermione hardly dared to hope… did this mean she'd be able to hold a wand again? To study Charms and Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts? Only two more months. She could hold out two more months, couldn't she? It had already been four. What was two more? Her hand twitched at the very idea of it. She'd missed her wand like one would an amputated extremity, she could feel it like a phantom limb at times, and she felt lost without it.

"Draco…" started Narcissa, her voice quivering. "Draco will be coming home for Christmas, then? I wrote to ask him, but he hasn't replied."

No one answered her. She focused on her Beef Wellington, her lower lip trembling. Hermione could tell she was doing everything in her power not to cry. She decided to change the subject, hoping it wouldn't upset her aunt just as much.

"Will my grandfather come for Christmas?"

"No," answered Narcissa and Bellatrix in unison.

"Cygnus rarely leaves the cottage house," explained the Dark Lord. "I went to school with your grandfather, Hermione. He was a good friend, a good man, and, for many years, a good Death Eater. Unfortunately, time has not been kind to him."

"Dementia," whispered Narcissa. "Exacerbated by melancholy, brought on by our mother's passing. I am sure you noticed it last month, at your dinner… He's not right in the head. Not anymore. Two house-elves and a Squib girl care for him full-time, and a Healer comes thrice weekly to give him potions and check for signs of further mental deterioration or poor physical health."

"I'm sorry." It was the truth. While she knew little of the man beyond his talent for chess, she couldn't imagine being as he was now, having lost his grasp on reality, asking about a dead wife and trying to eat roses for lack of knowing what else to do.

Hermione sipped her wine. It was red, elf-made, and imported, according to her aunt Narcissa, but that didn't make it taste good; she would have much rather been drinking butterbeer or pumpkin juice or even a nice Muggle Coke. Her dentist parents rarely allowed Coke.

She felt her eyes go watery.

Her parents.

The Grangers.

She missed them.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Halloween, 1981**

 **(15 years ago)**

The letter that changed their lives had come two years ago, Halloween 1979, and now they were celebrating their second Halloween with their precious, precocious, perfect toddler.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger of Hamstead Village married in 1965, then spent nine years trying to conceive a child the natural way before accepting it wouldn't happen. They then had a long, frank discussion about the future, and decided adoption was a better route anyway - give a good home to a child in need. Once the decision was made, they spent another three years going through the process, during which they were twice chosen by birth mothers who inevitably decided to keep their babies, and after which they cared for an orphaned child for seven months with the intention of making her part of their lives forever only for a biological grandmother to be found and take custody before the final papers were signed.

Dejected and too depressed to start again, they got a dog, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, named him Hamlet, and decided they'd be the type of people to treat their pet as if he were a child, accepting that their family would not be expanding in other ways. Just when they had given up hope (and shortly after Hamlet had finally stopped piddling on the kitchen floor), an anonymous letter arrived on their kitchen counter. No postage, no fingerprints, no sign of forced entry.

It was as if it had been left there by magic.

It read,

 _Mr. & Mrs. Granger,_

 _Some six weeks ago, on 19 September, a baby was born. A girl._

 _She is in need of a family; you are in need of a child to complete yours._

 _The girl's mother died in prison while serving a life sentence. She was not a bad person, not inherently, but she had been brainwashed into committing a crime by a masterful manipulator. She had no issues with drugs, alcohol, or mental illness, and the child was born healthy despite coming into this world on the cold floor of a cell. Her father is one who'd never see himself saddled down with a child; he does not know of her existence, nor would he care to._

 _The newborn currently resides in a children's home in London, where no one has yet attempted to adopt her, perhaps on account of a distinct Port-Wine Stain marking on the back of her leg, stretching from just below her bum to the curve of her ankle. This mark has caused her no health-related issues, nor should it. It is merely an aesthetic difference, one that should not prevent her from finding a forever family to love and be loved by._

 _She is slightly underweight, but should sufficiently plump up with regular feedings. She is also alert, attentive, wide-eyed, curious, and destined for greatness – her mother, despite the mistakes made in her life, was academically inclined, witty, confident, and talented in a multitude of ways. There is no reason to believe she wouldn't have passed these traits on to the child._

 _At six weeks old now, the baby girl has not yet smiled but rarely cries. She sleeps well and longs to be held._

 _She needs a name._

 _Below is the address and the name of the orphanage matron. She will be expecting you tomorrow at 2._

 _-A friend_

Of course, given they oddness of the anonymous letter and the fact that they were were dealing with a nameless baby left by someone other than the parents, the children's home had to do their due diligence, the law had to be involved, and the process took longer than the Grangers would have liked, but when that little girl with the wide eyes and the Port-Wine Stain was four months old, they were finally able to take her home. They gave her a name.

Hermione Jean Granger.

And she was perfect.

She had indeed plumped up once they took her in, and she loved to be held, and she especially loved to be read to. She would point to the pictures in each book and identify every color, shape, animal. She started stringing words together months before other children, and she adored adjectives.

"Big blue cat, Mumma! Round circle! Tall tree! Small squirrel! Gray tail! Eats acorns! Nibble, nibble, nibble! Squirrel dinner all done!"

"That's right, Hermione!" Mrs. Granger would say, hugging her little bug. "Who's my brilliant girl?"

"Her-my-nin-nee!"

(Intelligent as she was, it took awhile before she could correctly pronounce her own name.)

They never lied to her about being adopted.

"We _chose_ you," said Mr. Granger, tucking her into her very first 'big girl bed,' which was very small and close to the floor with side rails, so she wouldn't fall out, but it was an independent step away from her crib. "We could have chosen _any_ baby but we saw _you_ and knew you were our Hermione."

"Her-my-nin-nee."

"Yes."

Two bedtime stories, two kisses goodnight, and two new stuffed animals to sleep with: a fluffy cat and a stuffed snake.

"She loved that reptile house," Mrs. Granger whispered to Mr. Granger from the doorway to their daughter's room. They'd taken her to the zoo for the first time today as a belated second birthday gift, and while she enjoyed waving to the monkeys and roaring at the lions and gasping with awe at the pure white polar bear, it was the dark, dank, creepy reptile house that had her shouting, "More, Mumma! More, Daddy!"

So when they went to the souvenir shop and she chose a forest-and-lime green stuffed snake that could coil around her wrist when not being cuddled, they didn't try _too_ hard to talk her into an adorable three-toed sloth instead.

She had a happy Halloween. After the zoo, they'd gone to a party with friends where she, being much younger than anyone else's children, was doted on. She then sat in a big chair and looked at books by herself like a little Matilda while the adults enjoyed wine and crackers with fancy cheeses before dinner. She ate neatly, much more so than most two-year-olds would, and tried to make polite conversation with those around her.

"Pretty red dress," she said to Mrs. Miller.

"You like books?" she asked Mr. Jameson.

Later, the adults sat around the sitting room telling ghost stories while Hermione dozed on the chaise, tuckered out from bobbing for apples and chasing around the older kids, who'd played football in the yard at dusk. She sucked her thumb, which worried her dentist parents, who feared it would ruin her front teeth, but tonight they let her give into the habit.

"Always so sweet when they're sleeping!" cooed Mrs. Miller.

"Bright little girl you've got there," complimented Mr. Jameson.

The Grangers eventually bid their friends goodnight, returned home, and put her to bed, as usual.

Sometime before midnight, she awoke, screaming.

"Hermione?" Mrs. Granger reached the bedroom first, but with Mr. Granger fast on her heels.

"STOP STOP STOP!" she was shrieking, clawing at her throat. The stuffed snake had somehow become wrapped around her neck in her sleep.

"Hermione!" They rushed to her, kneeling beside her tiny bed. Mr. Granger removed the snake, tossing it directly into the rubbish bin, where it could do no more harm. Mrs. Granger cradled tiny Hermione in her arms, stroking her untamable tangled curls and brushing the tears from her ruddy cheeks, speaking in soothing tones.

"Bad dream!" wailed Hermione, clutching the front of Mrs. Granger's pajama top. "Bad man!"

"You had a bad dream about a bad man?" asked Mrs. Granger. She and Mr. Granger exchanged a glance.

"What happened in your dream?" asked Mr. Granger. "Can you tell us?"

"Bad man, green light, sad baby."

"Yes, we know you're sad, baby," said Mrs. Granger comfortingly. "You dreamt of a bad man and green light?"

"Want Mumma," said Hermione.

"I'm right here," said Mrs. Granger. She pressed her lips to Hermione's sweaty forehead, where flyaway hairs stuck to the skin.

The toddler shook her head.

"I think she must have been listening to some of those ghost stories tonight," said Mr. Granger, wincing. "When we thought she was asleep. Our poor girl."

Hermione shook her head again and shut her eyes tight. She tried to forget the terrifying white face of the bad man with the long stick and the green light. She tried to forget the cries of the sad baby in his crib, the crumpled form of a woman on the floor in front of him. She wanted her mumma, her mother. She wanted the woman who smelled of roses. She buried her face into Mrs. Granger's bosom and breathed deeply, seeking that scent, but all she found was cotton and coconut. No roses.

She'd never had a bad dream before. She rarely dreamt at all, and when she did, she was usually flying.

Later that night, she had another bad dream, this time about a woman. She was sobbing so hard when her parents came in to check on her, she couldn't tell them what it had been about.

"Mumma," she cried over and over, practically choking on tears. "Want Mumma!"

"I'm right here," Mrs. Granger whispered, rocking her until she was calm. "I'm right here, my little bug, and I'm not going anywhere."

Eventually the dreams stopped – all of them. About the bad man, about the woman who smelled of roses, even the ones about flying. They were eventually replaced by new nightmares: failing a test, being laughed at by her peers, showing up to school in only her underwear…

But Mr. and Mrs. Granger did not forget, and for the next several Halloweens, they were much more careful.

"No scary stories for this one!" they'd say, leaving before their friends' parties reached that portion of the evening. "They give our sweet girl bad dreams."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Halloween, 1975**

 **(21 years ago)**

"You Summoned me, my Lord?"

It was again the middle of the night. He'd taken to doing this on a semi-regular basis over the last four years. Perhaps it was stress-release, or amusement, or done to torture her. She wasn't sure, but no matter the reason, she was happy to answer his call.

"I did indeed, Bellatrix. It took you longer to arrive than usual. Were you asleep?"

"It's nearly midnight, my Lord." In truth, she'd been in the parlor of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange, her in-laws. The couple had long ago gone to bed, but their sons and the friends they'd invited over for the evening intended to continue the party well into the early morning. When her Dark Mark had burned, she'd kissed her husband on the cheek, apologized to their friends, and said she was turning in early, blaming a headache. Only Rodolphus seemed to suspect this was a lie.

She'd hurried instead to the room in which she and her husband were spending the week (as their home was set to be raided by Aurors) and reached for an article of clothing she'd purchased just for this (possible) occasion. She quickly fixed her hair and face before apparating, hoping he'd forgive her tardiness.

"That doesn't answer my question, Bellatrix." He leaned back in the chair. He wore an open wizard's robe over Muggle attire, a white button-down collared shirt and grey trousers. She knew he must have had business in the Muggle world tonight, or he'd never choose to be seen this way. Not that she was complaining. He looked good like this.

She wanted him.

She made no secret of this when they were alone together, though she continued to behave with the utmost professionalism when in the presence of other Death Eaters – in particular, her parents, who wouldn't approve.

But _fuck..._ she wanted him.

"You wore that to bed tonight?" the Dark Lord asked, one eyebrow cocked.

She glanced down as if she'd forgotten what she'd worn and had to take stock. She donned a black negligee, tight and revealing in the bodice, barely long enough to cover her arse, under a knee-length sheer robe, open, with cap sleeves, and strappy high-heeled shoes. She lifted her head, tossed back her hair, and tried to remain nonchalant.

"It's Wednesday, my Lord."

"Wednesday, Bellatrix?"

She smiled, wondering how he felt about her dark burgundy lipstick, a new color given up by Narcissa, who thought it too dark for her complexion.

"Yes, sir. And I always wear my best to bed on Wednesdays."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"Such spirit, Bellatrix Lestrange. Such fire. Such an incredible figure."

"I wasn't aware you ever noticed my figure, my Lord." She put on an exaggerated pout. "You make mention of it so infrequently."

He'd never fucked her, never even kissed her, but with every little meeting like this they came closer and closer to sin - and she loved it. Sometimes, like the first time, there were only looks and talk and a palpable sexual tension never alleviated, but sometimes he touched her, gently stroked her cheek or caressed the back of her thigh or smacked her ass, and he'd twice bitten her shoulder. For the first time, over the summer, he'd run his tongue along the line of her cleavage, delving under the cups of her bra, flicking the tip over her hardened nipples.

Sometimes he just wanted to look at her in various stages of undress (though he'd not yet seen her completely naked). Sometimes he asked her to slowly remove her attire. Sometimes he wanted to watch her touch herself.

And once he'd even used his mouth on her, bringing her to the point of ecstasy, leaving her trembling and throbbing and sated. She wanted this to be another night like that one – or, better still, she wanted this to be the night he let her touch him.

He _never_ let her be the one to touch him.

"Come," he said, beckoning her.

"I'd love to," she said, knowing he'd catch the double-meaning. She moved quickly to him, but with grace. He was seated in his favorite leather wing-backed chair, his favorite place from which to observe her.

He reached under her sheer robe, under the short fabric of the negligee, and grasped the back of her right thigh firmly, just under her the curve of her arse. He guided her leg up until her knee was resting on the chair against his left hip. Her other knee was trapped between his.

"Do you have any idea how you torment me, _Bellatrixx_?" He hissed her first name, bringing the tiny hairs on her arms to attention, and causing a flood of warmth between her legs.

"With all due respect, my Lord, I believe it is _you_ who torments _me_."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

She tilted her head down, letting wild curls create a curtain around their faces.

"I believe you know, sir."

He guided her chin until their lips were barely touching, not quite enough to be considered a kiss.

"I seek to eschew the pleasures of the flesh, that which have been the downfall of many a man."

He'd told her this many times, far too many times.

"But you apparate to my chambers dressed like a thousand-galleon whore, reeking of your arousal, wanton and wanting… What am I to do?"

"Let me make you happy, my Lord. Let me…"

"I have no need for a mistress."

"No, sir, but…"

"Shhh." His lips tickled hers as he spoke. "I have no need for a mistress, and you're married."

"Yes."

"But I cannot deny that I want you. And Lord Voldemort gets what he wants. He takes what he wants."

"Take _me,_ my Lord. Please."

"Don't beg, Bellatrix." He flicked his tongue against her bottom lip, eliciting from her a quiet whimper. "Begging is unbecoming. I expect better from you. Understand?"

She didn't quite, but she responded as she knew she should:

"Yes, sir."

He squeezed the back of her thigh, nearly making her leg buckle and landing her in his lap.

"I have always loved Halloween, Bellatrix. I feel… lucky… on Halloween."

"Would you like to _get_ 'lucky' on Halloween, my Lord?"

There was a long pause, so long she worried she'd angered him with her cheek, and then he laughed. He laughed, and pulled at her other thigh so she was straddling him, and buried his face in her hair, and then laughed some more.

"You are nothing if not bold. Fifty points to Slytherin." He held firmly to her hips, grinding her against his crotch. He was hard; she'd never known whether she made him hard before. He typically hid himself under billowing robes when he summoned her like this, leaving her wondering whether the effect she had on him was anything like the one he had on her.

"Perhaps this year we'll win the House Cup," she whispered. She twerked forward, letting the tent in his trousers rub at her clit, loving the way it felt, loving know she'd had this effect on him. He stopped her before it could go too far.

"Remove this… _ensemble_ … and get on the bed, Bellatrix. Keep the shoes."

"Yes, my Lord." She slipped off his lap, let the robe drop from her shoulders, and slowly lowered the thin straps of the negligee, never taking her eyes off his.

He smiled.

He loved Halloween.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Halloween, 1981**

 **(15 years ago)**

He was gone.

The Dark Lord was gone.

She clutched her hands to her chest and stared at the house, which had been blown half to hell. The Potters' house. She'd arrived just in time to see that half-giant oaf carrying a small bundle out the front door, which was barely standing, and getting into a motorbike with a side car. Sirius' motorbike.

But the Dark Lord was gone.

She'd searched the home herself, screaming his name, not caring if any of the Muggle neighbors heard her. Not caring if Dumbledore returned or if Aurors arrived to arrest her. She had to find him.

But she could not find him.

Her baby was gone. The Dark Lord was gone.

Everything she had to live for was gone.

Someone would pay for this.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Halloween, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape was in a foul fucking mood.

Not only was it Halloween, his least favorite day of the whole damn year, but he was supposed to be tutoring Hermione Granger in the cellar dungeon of Malfoy Manor tonight, and he was already three hours late thanks to a nosy Dumbledore and a daft Draco.

Only hour earlier, he'd tried to speak to his godson, to reason with the boy.

"I have nothing to say to you," the blond had said, jutting up his pointed chin with an air of undeserved self-importance. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Severus had sneered. "You knew what you were doing when you Imperiused Rosemerta into giving Katie Bell that cursed necklace to deliver to Dumbledore? You _knew_ what you were doing? You _knew_ there was a hole in her glove, that she would open the package, that she could potentially die?"

"I had no idea you cared so much for that great ugly Gryffindor." Draco was sneering too. Their eyes locked, and, were they both stags, their horns would be locked as well. "All cut up about her little injury, are you?"

"That was an asinine plan and you're lucky I managed to wipe Rosemerta's memory clean before Aurors arrived! She may not have known she was under the Imperius Curse, but they could have easily gotten the information from her with the help of a Pensieve or Veritaserum! I am expected to believe you're afraid he'll kill your mother, which should be an excellent motivator, and yet you're behaving as carelessly-"

"I know what he might do to her, and I don't need your reminders, Snape!" Draco tried to push past him, but Severus blocked the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door. "I _said_ I know what I'm doing. Let me go."

"Let me in on your plans, Draco. Let me help you."

"You don't want to help, you want to take over! To steal my glory, to carry out the task the Dark Lord entrusted to me, because he thinks I show promise-"

"He thinks you're going to fail! He set you up to fail. Let me help you."

"I _said,_ I do not need your help." Draco tried again to shove by, but Severus knocked him back into the room and waved his wand, slamming the door shut again.

Then Severus grabbed the boy by the chin and tried to see into his thoughts, but found a barrier he could not easily penetrate. Clearly, Bellatrix had spent some quality time with her nephew over the summer. Draco slapped his hand away impertinently.

"Quit giving me detentions I won't serve, quit asking me questions I won't answer, and quit visiting my mother. Don't think I don't know about what happened in August, _Professor."_ Draco spit out the title as if it were dirty.

"About _what_ that happened in August?" Severus kept his face impassive, his voice calm, his mind clear. Surely, the boy couldn't know about the Unbreakable Vow. There was no way.

"I know you fucked my mother, you disgusting old pervert."

 _"What?"_ Severus couldn't help but laugh. The sound was one of derision, but the emotion behind it was intense relief. "I had a very busy summer, Draco, but not _that_ busy."

"Stay away from me, and stay away from my mother."

"I have no interest in your mother, Draco, and if you continue along this path, I'll have even less interest in helping you."

"Good."

This time, Severus let the boy charge by. He watched as Draco threw open the door, shooting him a look of disdain over his shoulder, and stalked from the room.

Bloody stupid boy. They were all dunderheads, fucking teenagers. Not a one of them had any sense. Not Draco Malfoy, not Harry Potter, not even Hermione Granger.

Black.

Hermione Black.

Hermione Riddle. Hermione Voldemort?

Severus snorted.

As much as he disliked having a second job on top of the one he could barely manage at the moment, what with directives from both masters being fired at him in rapid succession, he found himself looking forward to their sessions. One on one she was much less intolerable than in a classroom. For one, she had no one to show off for when it was just the two of them locked in the cellar. He gave lessons and assignments and homework, she completed them and asked only pertinent questions, and sometimes this led to fascinating discussions and passionate debates. Not that he would ever let on that he didn't mind tutoring her. Let her think it nothing but a chore, one he was forced to undertake.

Let her think he hated her.

Let her think he never once went home and replayed a lesson in his mind.

Let her think he never once went home and played out an entirely different scenario in his mind.

"Old pervert indeed," he muttered. He set to straightening up the classroom. He had ten minutes to kill before a last-minute meeting with Dumbledore he hoped would not run long.

He'd hoped in vain.

"The boy still refuses to tell you anything?"

"The boy thinks he has things under control."

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles. "Despite the incident with Katie Bell?"

"He maintains he knew what he was doing." Severus curled his lip. "At this age, they're all false bravado and no sense. He's no better than Potter at the moment."

"And Miss Granger, how is she?"

Severus tried to look surprised by the question. "Still dead, I presume."

"I don't think so." Dumbledore scratched his chin – or, more accurately, scratched over the thick white beard covering it. "I believe Mr. Potter is quite right in thinking she's alive. I cannot see why Tom and Bellatrix would have taken her if their intention was to kill – they could have killed her there in the Ministry. And no body has turned up." He shook his head thoughtfully. "No, they have other plans for the girl, of that I am certain. Haven't you been working on-"

"I've done the best I can," snapped Severus. "I can't exactly sit down for tea with the Dark Lord and strike up a conversation about the well-being of a girl reported dead. He'll either think I've gone mad, or he'll think I believe him to be a liar. Either way, it will lessen whatever use to him he believes me to be. He doesn't want me barmy _or_ doubting him, and I don't want to die, thank you."

"Go through Bellatrix, then. Or Narcissa. She may have confessed the truth to her sister, and Narcissa is not the strong Occlumens her elder sister is."

"Narcissa knows nothing; I've tried. Either the girl really is dead-"

"She's not."

"Or Narcissa genuinely believes her to be."

"This is important, Severus." Dumbledore's voice was quiet, calm. He leaned forward, resting his chin on tented fingers, studying the sallow-skinned, dark-eyed man across the desk. "I need to know where they're keeping Miss Granger… and why."

"Why would they?" challenged Severus. "What good could she possibly be to them?"

Dumbledore sat back and reached for his tin of sherbet lemons. There was a long silence before he spoke again.

"I suspect only time will answer that."

* * *

 **A/N:**

old-timey TV show announcer voice:

 _What's going on with Dumbledore?_

 _Is Severus having impure thoughts about his student?_

 _When did Voldemort actually shag Bella for the first time?_

 _Can Hermione and Draco learn to get along over Christmas?_

 _Will fragile Narcissa fall completely apart?_

 _Find out next time, on…_

 _The Dark Lord's Daughter, or, the Corruption of Hermione Granger!_

(Kidding! Mostly…)

Coming up in **Chapter Seven** : a row between two main characters leads to uncomfortable admissions.

Coming up in **Chapter Eight** : sweet and sour lemons (aka, a sprinkling of smut). So… fair warning. :)

To **LotusAivy** 's point about the number of OWLs Hermione earned, I made the mistake of using two different sites for fact checking, which is why I had 11 in one chapter and 12 in another (even though some later sources say ten). Going to stick with eleven, as I like the notion that she still took the Muggle Studies exam. :)

Thank you so much for all of your reviews, for reading, for following, and for adding to faves! With other fics I've done review responses every few chapters, so starting with the next chapter I'm going to do that with this one, too, so if you have any Qs be sure to check the A/Ns for replies! In the meantime, I want to give a grateful shout-out to everyone who has shared their reactions thus far: **Lilikaco, Guest(s), Martionmanswife, Gajevyaddict, HGKE, HopelesslyEmotional, The Gryffindor Hatstall, emrldapplejuice, Alexa SixT, Francis-Rose, LotusAivy, AnotherAlderbaran, RhodaBush, fallenangle 36910, chibichanga, kalilje, miss quirky bookworm, Sparky She-Demon, IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse, sasu-hina94, zillawisp, ArdentlyAdmired, elleaeterna, malugargula, sassanech, Kat, bacrawford, TheLadyBookworm, Silver Lestrange, kmplease, FrancineHibiscus, skyeryder 01, DBV, FatalRomance, bibikitten224, meldz, ladiefury, clarasnotlikely, voldyismyfatehr, RAV3N R1PP3R, , carmynsorena, pgoodrichboggs, littlesleepingbird, Chelsea always, Nova 5261, decadenceofmysoul, articcat 621, KateKat 1992, aliasmel 1, LK-HoGwArTs-hEaDgIrL, Cecily Mitchell, loves to read 234, thewinnowingwind, Jay, CinderSpire 793, Harry Hobbit, Sassyluv, Banglabou, Silver Orbed Lioness, Lianore, PopularCats, Black Banshee, brookie 88, Jessie, DBV, meldz, Francesca, Shnazy, Smngrfl 88, angel 897, littleneko 1923, Mashiro 09, trickstersink, KmyD, kiarcheo, pineappleforever, SarahF, randomfan 17, yourwheezy, wonderful 99, MarciKyle, Lucyole, Bananniejones, hule, Aisti, ForsakenKalika, Natsumegf, AngelAzazel 88, Elizabethrose 1974,** & **LFA.**

(Sorry for any typos. Especially if you have numbers in your name, sometimes ffnet distorts it for no good reason. If I missed anyone, I am profoundly apologetic, let me know and I'll fix it!)

 **-AL**


	8. ABUSE

**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

 **ABUSE**

 **Mid-November, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"But _when_ may I have my wand?" Hermione knew she was whining, she knew she sounded every bit the petulant child, but frankly, she did not care. Five long months she'd been without it, without a way to harness her magic, without proper education, and even though the Dark Lord suggested she may have it back by the new year and it was only mid-November, she was losing her bloody patience.

Severus Snape did not seem to care.

"I believe that is between you and Mummy, Miss Granger."

"Don't call her Mummy," Hermione snapped.

"Why not?" He cocked an eyebrow, a mocking smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Don't you?"

She didn't answer.

The truth was, yes, she'd been calling her mummy out loud for some time now, because it was what the woman preferred, but in her head, her mother, Mrs. Granger, would always be the only "mummy" she knew. This other woman could be her mother, her birth mother, and be called Mother, but she'd already had a mummy, and she didn't need a new one.

He glanced around the cellar, beyond the bars, and toyed with the wand in his hand.

"Where _is_ Mummy tonight? Too busy to chaperone us? Seems a great risk, doesn't it, considering how little she trusts me, to leave us alone. For all she knows, I could be breaking you out of here right now, gathering you in my arms, opening the cell, taking you to the grounds and apparating back to Hogwarts, to the safety of Dumbledore's Order…"

Hermione's heart did a little jump.

"Or I could be taking advantage of you. Lonely young woman, locked in a cell, older man, no current prospects, both intelligent, one desperate to be told 'good job,' the other risking death-by-ennui – I'll let you guess which is which – and with a thick tension in the room at all times… who knows what might happen…?" He slipped the wand back into his jacket's inside pocket.

"If you think you're amusing, Professor, you're mistaken." She flopped back onto her bed and folded her arms over her chest, glaring and pouting and fuming at once. He'd told her just last session to act her age; she felt this was a perfect indicator of 'seventeen.'

"I think it odd she's not here, that's all. Where is she, Granger?"

"What business is it of yours, Professor?"

He smirked. "What business indeed. What business is any of this of mine? Why am I bothering to tutor you at all? We both know you'll never leave Malfoy Manor. You'll never spend a night sleeping outside this cell. The Dark Lord will never fully trust you, not with freedom, not with a wand, no matter what he says during your little dining room dinners during which you all pretend to be a family, smiling at each other over potatoes, passing the butter from one end of the table to the other, making small talk. They will take you out and show you off on occasion, to keep you hungering for it, to keep you under their control, but to the rest of the world – which turns even without you – Hermione Granger is dead and dead she shall remain."

"You are a cruel man," she whispered. Was this punishment for her display of immaturity, or was he doing her a favor by dispensing a truth no one else would impart?

He shrugged. "Your absence is still keenly felt at Hogwarts, for what it's worth."

"Is it?" She changed positions, putting herself back on the edge of the bed, facing him across her small desk, almost afraid to hope. "Do they miss me?"

"Miss you? No. But Malfoy is enjoying being top of his Potions class without you there to show him up, Potter's got a certain pretty ginger on his arm at all times, and Weasley's lost more points than Longbottom thus far this term, as he's been caught with girls everywhere from the Shrieking Shack to the Astronomy Tower to the prefects bathroom. McGonagall misses you, I suppose. She thought you might show Animagus promise someday; it's such a delight for some professors to teach interested students. I wouldn't know."

"Perhaps it's you, and not your subject, that bores them." His words had wounded her, and she wanted to hurt him back, but her quip only served to grow his smile.

"Perhaps it is. But I meant that I wouldn't know as it does not delight me to teach interested students. As a matter of fact, having one like _you_ in the classroom is far more headache-inducing than it is pleasurable."

"Why must you torment me, Professor? Do you get off on causing me pain?"

"Do I get off on it?" He chuckled at her word choice. "You must think me a strange fetishist."

"You know what I think of you, _sir_?"

"No." He sat back, amused. "Enlighten me."

"I think you are a petty, angry, insecure man who hides his true vulnerabilities behind a thick layer of cruelty and sarcasm. I think you 'get off' on making women doubt themselves, on making us feel like less than we are, because the only way you can handle the fact that women don't want you is to make yourself believe you're so much better than we are, worth so much more than our silly affections, that being alone is a choice. I think you enjoy coming here and teaching me because it's more than you've usually got going on in the evenings, and I think you do like having an interested student, but you're so unused to having them you don't know what to do with one, so you play it off as a nuisance, as if a desire to learn is a negative trait."

She stood, preferring to rant and rave from a more dominant position. He did not move. She stalked around the small cell, which was lacking in space as more furniture was being added, and threw up her hands. Her face went pink, then red, and finally purple, and she unleashed upon him all she'd been bottling up… and then some.

"I think you only _wish_ you could be as valuable a Death Eater as Bellatrix Lestrange! I think you're jealous of her and I think you're jealous of Harry! I think you're jealous of _all_ people who are true to themselves and have the strength of their convictions. I think you're tired of playing the double-agent, but that you'll never reveal your true loyalties – perhaps you don't even _have_ true loyalties – because you know playing both sides is the only way to survive no matter which side prevails. I think you, sir, are as cowardly as you are snarky, and I think both traits are thoroughly unattractive! I also think you lack manners more than you do proper shampoo, and that you are the meanest, nastiest, snarkiest, _pettiest_ professor to ever teach! Your only redeeming qualities are your ability to hold intelligent conversation and the arousing timbre of your voice, both of which are quickly losing their novelty, as far as I'm concerned! And whether _my mother_ is here to chaperone or not, _I wouldn't let you take advantage of me if you were the last man on the planet and the future of the human race was entirely dependent upon my willingness to help repopulate it!"_

Severus Snape stared at Hermione for several long moments in the most uncomfortable silence she'd ever had the misfortune of leading into.

Finally, just when she thought he might rise and exit without so much as a farewell, he pulled his wand from his pocket, tapped the top of the desk twice with the handle, and gestured toward her small, new bookshelf.

"Did you do the Arithmancy work this week as instructed? I realize it was more reading than I typically assign, but I assumed you had no pressing social engagements to get in the way of it."

"Of course." With a deep sigh of intense relief she didn't bother trying to hide from him, she reached for her parchment and textbook on the second shelf. "I think you'll find it's been completed to your satisfaction, and for good measure, I went above and beyond…"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-November, 1976**

 **(twenty years ago)**

"It took you a long time to arrive." He was seated, as usual, in that wing-backed leather chair she loved, looking her over appraisingly over tented fingers. He was wearing robes, the long, black ones he'd donned at their meeting earlier in the evening. She wore a thick terrycloth dressing gown, white with purple accents, and flat shoes. She had it cinched tightly at the waist. Her wild hair was down, as he liked it, and her makeup was smeared as if she'd worn it into the shower.

"Was it raining?"

"No, my Lord." She hugged her arms around her body and avoided his eye, employing Occlumency though she knew it angered him to be kept purposely out of her thoughts.

"Then you've been crying."

"Nonsense."

"Come." He beckoned.

"I… Do you need me for something tonight, my Lord?"

His brow furrowed. He was used to her disobeying by now, in the bedroom, at least, where it was somewhat of a game between them. But this was different.

"You are not yourself, Bellatrix."

He hissed her name, as usual, but the usual tingling it elicited in her extremities was not present tonight. She watched, frozen, as he rose and made his way to her, to the spot into which she'd apparated, just beyond a door that led Morgana-only-knows where. In all the times he'd Summoned her to his side, she'd never seen outside of this room.

"Bellatrix?" He seized her by the upper arms. She winced and tried to step back, but he held her firmly in place.

"Yes, my Lord?" She quickly amended her expression to one of mere curiousness. And naiveté.

He wasn't buying it. His hands went to the tie on her dressing gown. She caught his wrists as he went to pull it loose.

"Please, don't."

"You are not yourself," he repeated. He untied the robe and let it slide from her arms, onto the floor behind her, leaving her in a pale pink silk nightshirt with capped sleeves and a low curved neckline, matching sleep shorts, and the flats. She bit her lip and focused her attention on the fire in the fireplace across the room. The light danced alluringly across her eyes, but his focus was on her arms.

"You are bruised."

"Yes, my Lord."

She was indeed. There were bruises forming along her upper arms, not yet purpled, but puffy and clearly tender. She also had a cut down the center of her chest which looked to have been caused by a severing charm. Her throat – her delicious, creamy white throat – was marred with red; the skin there was agitated.

"Your husband did this?"

After a beat, she nodded.

"Did he rape you?"

"He's my husband."

He took one of her hands between his, examining it closely, in particular her fingernails.

"But you fought back. There is blood under your nails."

She wrenched her hand back, cradling it in the other as if it needed protection. "In our marriage contract, it clearly states that the wife has the right of refusal during the first three months after childbirth or the first three weeks after a miscarriage."

"And which was this?" he asked, quite unnecessarily. She answered anyway.

"Miscarriage."

"Do you _want_ to have his child, Bellatrix?" The Dark Lord's face was completely impassive, unreadable, not hint of anger, no hint of anything.

"No," she answered honestly, miserably. "But it is my duty. I must provide one son."

"How long ago was it lost?"

"Two weeks."

"How far along?"

"Six…" She inhaled sharply and let the air out in a burst. "Six weeks."

"And it was his?"

Now the fire in her eyes was not a reflection of the flames. Her gaze snapped to his face, sharply. Clearly, he'd insulted her.

"You think I'm a slag? Who else could have fathered it, my Lord?"

"Not I." Though they'd come dangerously close over the past year, he'd yet to penetrate her with anything by his tongue and fingers, though he _had_ come in her mouth on more than one occasion.

"I have only ever been with my husband, but thank you for asking." She curled her lip. "Could I go now?"

"No."

She swore and he smiled slightly. This was the Bellatrix he knew, one who dared mutter "fuck" half-under her breath upon being told no, even when the one saying no was the Dark Lord himself. This was the Bellatrix he liked. Not a docile, subdued woman with a ducked head and arms full of bruises.

"Did he rape you?" he asked again, insistently.

"It's not rape when-"

"I am not asking for a discussion on semantics or law. Sit." He gestured to his chair, the wing-backed leather chair, the one he always sat in. The one she'd never sat in, unless one counted when she sat in or straddled his lap.

She reached for her dressing gown but he waved his wand, Vanishing it.

"Why would you do that?" she snapped. "What if I'm cold?"

"Then I shall make it warmer." He aimed the wand at the fireplace. The flames roared higher, and heat burst forth, a complicated spell, but one that would have the entire room toasty in no time. Still quietly furious over the loss of her robe, she settled herself in the chair, legs crossed at the ankle, awaiting further instructions.

"What did he do?"

"He wanted me."

"And you…?"

"Did not want him."

"And then…?"

"He got rough." She scowled. "I am not permitted to use magic against him, my Lord, nor can he use it against me. It's in our-"

"Marriage contract." He narrowed his eyes. "We'll see about getting that amended. I do not like the notion that my best soldier could be taken down by a piece of enchanted parchment. Anyone could put a weak-minded man like him under the Imperius Curse, then instruct him to attack you, and you would be defenseless. This is unacceptable. Continue. I must know exactly what occurred this evening."

"I told you." Her voice cracked, but she did not cry. "He wanted me. I did not want him. Magically, he is no match for me, but physically…" She glared down at her hands, as if they were at fault. "Physically I am the weaker one. He tried to force himself on me, but I fought back. He reminded me that it is my duty to give myself to him when he demands, I reminded him that it has only been two weeks since the loss. He held me down, choked me, touched me." She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and attempted to continue as impassively as possible. "When Rodolphus had his... erection... exposed, he attempted to pry my thighs apart. I kneed him in the groin. He rolled aside, giving me opportunity to escape. I then Apparated to my sister's home, which is why I'm wearing… this. It's Cissy's. When I… when I arrived on her doorstep I was holding closed the front of my nightgown; he'd used a severing charm…"

"I can see." He pressed the back of his forefinger gently to the top of the cut and ran it down the length, finally stopping when he reached the space between her breasts.

"It took me long to get here because when you Summoned me, I didn't have my wand. I had to return home for it, but I did not stay long enough to change my attire. By then, he was asleep, or perhaps unconscious, inebriated. The entire bedroom reeked of Ogden's Best."

"You…" His eyes opened wider. "You apparated from your home to Malfoy Manor without a wand?"

"Yes, my Lord." She fiddled with the lacy trim of the silk sleep shorts. "And back. But I did not think I could do it to get here. I was afraid to splinch myself."

"That you are able to apparate at all without one on your person astounds me, frankly, Bellatrix. Brilliant."

Her cheeks went slightly pink at the compliment.

"I do not want him hurting you. You are too valuable to me." He cleared his throat. "As a soldier. My best. I cannot have you damaged – not by his hand, and not by… Not saddled with a baby. Your current focus should be on me and our work, not on providing him an heir. There will therefore be no more pregnancies. Not ever." He raised his wand, contemplating which spell would work best.

"You intend to make me infertile?" She looked so horrified, so deeply and profoundly _hurt_ , that he quickly lowered his wand and assured her that was not his intention – though it had been.

"Not you," he said. _"Rodolphus._ Rodolphus will not be giving you a son. And he will not be… bruising you… again. I consider all Death Eaters mine, my army, my property, for me to do which what I please, and I'll not have him destroying what's mine."

"Could I…" She took a shaky breath, summoning up her courage. "Could I stay with you tonight, my Lord?"

He'd never let her stay, never rested with her, never risked falling asleep together. "Too dangerous," he always said. For whom, she wasn't sure.

He knelt before her, positioning himself between her legs, and closely examined the cut down her center.

"I can heal this. Essence of Dittany."

"Cissy applied some. So it won't scar."

"You used a bruise salve for the pain?"

"She didn't have one."

"Neither do I, unfortunately." He traced it with his thumb. "Get on the bed, Bellatrix. Remove your shoes."

She nodded. Once he'd risen and stepped away, she obeyed, positioning herself on her back, as usual.

She began pulling up her nightshirt, exposing her breasts – and the jagged cut in its entirety. "What would you like to see me do, my Lord?"

"Keep that on." He removed his Death Eater robe and the clothing under it, reached for a sleepshirt of his own from the dresser in the corner, and pulled it on over his head. She'd never seen him don anything so casual. It was almost surreal.

He crawled into bed beside her, under the sheets, and gestured for her to join him, as she was still on top of the blanket.

"I do not hold women while they sleep," he said, but then his hand went to her abdomen, and he pulled her against him, her back to his chest. "I am doing this only to protect you tonight, as Rodolphus may still be angry when he wakes, and come looking for you, and I'll not have him damaging what's mine – one of my soldiers." He pressed his lips to the back of her shoulder. "It is only for tonight."

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered, relaxing for the first time since the miscarriage two weeks ago. She was glad to know she'd never have to give Lestrange a son, but already her womb ached from knowing it would never again carry a baby, never bring one to term.

If she could, she'd give the Dark Lord _a_ _thousand_ sons for his army, and gladly raise each in his servitude. And all she'd ask for in return would be a daughter. Not that he'd ever grant her a child.

For tonight, she was content to simply close her eyes, listen to the calming sound of his breathing, and fall asleep.

Only for tonight.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-November, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Severusss…?" Narcissa took a step forward, stumbled, and slammed into the cement wall with her shoulder. "Ow. I… I didn't know you were here. I wasss looking for… the… girl." She pointed at Hermione; her whole arm swayed. After a second, she dropped it, and relaxed against the wall.

"Are you drunk?" He was still seated across from Hermione, finishing the latest Ancient Runes lesson. This wasn't his best course, he'd only managed an Acceptable in the subject, his lowest O.W.L. grade, and he found her questions irritating as he had to look up the answers in the text book (which she could do for herself).

"I am not drunk, I'm merely _drunk_." Narcissa shook her head. "No, that's not right."

"You _are_ drunk." He sighed, clearly annoyed, and nodded to Hermione. "Excuse me."

Hermione watched longingly as he exited the bars. How badly she wanted free from this prison, how badly she wanted a real window, one that opened to smell the air, to feel the sun on her face.

She hadn't seen the sun since May.

"Sevvver…usss." Narcissa sort of moaned, tipped her head back against the wall, and closed her eyes. "I wanted to talk to the girl."

"You shouldn't be talking to anyone in this state, Narcissa." He took her firmly by the arm and turned, leading her toward the exit. The stairs. Hermione knew they were just around the corner because she could hear the sound of her mother's heels on them when she came down for meals.

 _The woman,_ Hermione quickly mentally corrected. _Not 'my mother.'_

"She is smart, Sevrus. She could help Draco. She could…"

"Up to bed with you."

"What's going on here?"

Hermione froze.

She hadn't heard her mother's footsteps descending tonight. She must not be wearing her usual high-heeled boots. Perhaps she was in slippers, like Narcissa, or ballet flats, like the ones Hermione wore around her cell. She went to the bars and craned her neck, itching to see, or hear, but they were just out of sight.

"Your sister is pissed. Take her upstairs."

"What are you doing here, Snape?" (Hermione could hear the sneer in her mother's voice. _In the woman's voice._ ) "It's not your night for tutoring."

"It is indeed," he drawled. "Perhaps you ought to invest in a calendar, Bella."

"Do not call me Bella."

"My apologies, Mrs. Lestrange."

She hissed. "I don't want you here when I'm not here."

"It isn't my fault you weren't here. You should have been." He tutted. "Neglecting your only child so soon after the happy reunion? I'd wagered you'd last six months playing Mummy. Seems I gave you too much credit. Now I owe Rowle two galleons. Damn."

"Draco wrote me about you." The woman's voice dropped even lower. Hermione wished she had Extendable Ears, but had to settle for pressing her body against the bars, straining to listen, trying not to even breathe.

"Did he?"

"He said you're getting in the way, trying to dissuade him from completing his task. Why is that, Snape? Developed affection for the old man? Perhaps, something more?"

"Hardly. The old man could drop dead tomorrow, for all I care."

Narcissa made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a wail.

"I am trying to help the boy, that is all."

"My nephew does not need your help."

"Bella…" Now Narcissa was pleading. Hermione imagined her on her knees, begging up at her sister, clutching one of the woman's hands between her own. "Bella, please, let him help. Let him… Draco… Draco is just a boy. He's just a boy, Bella. He's a little boy."

"If I had sons, I'd gladly give them up in service to the Dark Lord!" postured the woman loudly. Hermione could picture her, chest puffed out, shoulders back, chin jutted up. She looked just the same when postulating with a slight air of false confidence.

"How convenient for you, then, that you have naught but a daughter," said Snape. "And even that, only barely."

There was the sound of a slap, then a groan, then a crash, and finally a thud.

"Fuck, Snape, look what you did!"

"What _I_ did? You slapped me!"

"I didn't knock into Narcissa!"

"I was holding her up! If you wanted me to continue holding her up, you should not have slapped me."

"Fuck. Reparo." Whatever had been broken must have been fixed; there was a tinkling of glass, then silence. "Ennervate her so she can walk, or levitate her upstairs?"

"I'd opt for the latter, not that I care. She's _your_ sister. Your sister, your nephew, your daughter, your nonexistent sons. Not mine."

"But..."

"Goodnight, _Bella."_

He was louder on the stairs than usual. Hermione sighed. He hadn't assigned her homework for next time, and she wasn't ready for the lesson to be done. She wasn't ready to be left alone again.

"Ennervate, you hopeless alcoholic," said the woman.

"I'm on the floor?" asked Narcissa.

"Yes, you are. Get up."

"I wanted to talk to the girl."

Hermione's ears perked up again. Why was Aunt Narcissa so desperate to speak with her? What was Draco doing that he needed help with? Why did she think Hermione, of all people, wandless and locked up, could be the one to assist? Especially if Snape could not.

"You're going up to bed. Let's go."

More noise. More footsteps. A loud creak and a slam.

She was again alone.

For how long, she did not know.

She waited up awhile, with the hope that Professor Snape was going to remember about the homework and return, but when at least an hour had passed and he didn't return she gave up. She closed the curtain, tidied up her books and parchment, and placed them all on the desk, which he'd stopped transfiguring back to a crate at the end of her lessons, as it just made more sense for her to have a workspace. She changed into pajamas and crawled under the covers.

She had difficulty falling asleep.

She always had difficulty falling asleep.

As a young child, she had difficulty falling asleep because her mind would not shut off. She would go over the day in her head, thinking about her lessons, interactions with teachers and other kids, stories she'd read in the newspaper or seen on the news, conversations with her parents…

She let worries keep her up at night some nights. She let fantasies keep her up other nights. She imagined herself escaping the dungeon, finding her parents, restoring their memories. She imagined herself going back to Hogwarts, surprising everyone, hugging Harry, punching Ron. She imagined herself… she imagined herself…

Once in a great while…

She imagined herself in front of the Death Eaters, standing in a place of prominence between her birth parents. She imagined herself leading an army, an uprising. She imagined herself making the woman proud, making her smile and clap her hands and tell her how much she loved her…

When she was small, she spent countless hours imagining her birth mother, wondering whether she'd been loved, wondering whether the woman had planned for her, had named her, had hopes and dreams for her. Hermione imagined her mother was a teacher, or a doctor, or an artist, or a politician, or a CEO. She imagined her mother cradling her, cooing to her, singing to her, rocking her. She imagined her smelling like roses or rosewater, for some odd reason, and she imagined her apologizing for dying, apologizing for not being strong enough to stay alive for her.

When she was ten, her parents told her the truth – that her mother hadn't just died, she'd died in prison. She wasn't a teacher or a doctor, an artist, politician, or CEO – she was a petty criminal. She'd given birth on the floor of her cell and died shortly thereafter.

This knowledge had greatly wounded ten-year-old Hermione. It destroyed every fantasy she'd had about her mother. Her mother probably hadn't planned for her, she realized. She'd probably been an accident – because what criminal would purposely get pregnant? Who would want to have a baby in prison? She put her birth mother out of her mind, and didn't think about her again until a year later.

When Professor Minerva McGonagall knocked at the Granger's door, wearing a strange hat and carrying a letter. This had renewed Hermione's interest in her birth parents. Even though Professor McGonagall assured the Grangers there was no reason to believe Hermione was the child of magical parents, she thought maybe, just maybe…

But no.

If her mother was a witch, she wouldn't have been a petty criminal. She wouldn't have gotten caught, gone to prison, and birthed her baby there.

She wouldn't have died.

Her unknown father might have magical blood… But Professor McGonagall encouraged the Grangers to discourage Hermione from hoping for that, as it was just as likely she was "like any other Muggleborn." There are many at Hogwarts, new ones starting every year. Said McGonagall, "It's not unusual."

Not unusual.

Hermione had never before been told she was _not_ unusual.

And so she forced herself to give up daydreams about her witch mother or wizard father, and when she started school, she threw herself into her studies, determined to be the best damned Muggleborn to ever perform magic. She didn't tell her friends she was adopted; it didn't matter, as the Grangers were Mum and Dad and would always be. No one needed to know she had a birth mother who died in prison or an unknown biological father.

And now, no one knew she was still alive. No one knew she was here, trapped in the cellar. And, if Professor Snape was correct, no one ever would.

Professor Snape.

She couldn't believe he'd just sat there while she lit into him tonight.

She couldn't believe she'd referenced the 'arousing timbre' of his voice.

She was losing her mind, that's all there was to it. She was going mad from lack of sunlight and lack of movement and lack of freedom.

And it would never get better.

She would never get out of this prison.

The promise of eventual freedom was meant to keep her docile, tamed, just like he'd said. But like a tiger in the circus or a lion at the zoo, even if they brought her out and put her on display once in a while, she'd never be free from her cage.

The realization was crushing.

Hermione turned over, facing her pillow, and sobbed herself to sleep.

Professor Snape was right.

The world was already moving on without her.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you for all the support for the last chapter! Sorry this one is kind of transitional, no real action. But…

Coming up in **Chapter Eight** : Citrus. Smut. Lemony stuff. Inappropriate encounters. And the like. But perhaps not quite what you're expecting. Still, I hope you enjoy.

Coming up in **Chapter Nine** : A Very Death Eater Christmas. Hermione experiences the holiday as a Black/Riddle for the very first time, plus a couple of short flashbacks to Christmases past.

Thank you to all **Chapter Six** reviewers! To respond…

 **Yourwheezy** – Thanks! I'm going to show Snape's POV sporadically throughout; it's just too much fun getting into his head to stay out of it! I also love writing first war Bella/Voldemort.

 **Francine Hibiscus** – I agree, I think she really more just wanted to be recognized and to share, but in Snape's view she was just a show off. :)

 **AngelAzazel88** – Thanks! Look for more Hermione/Tom time in coming chapters. ;)

 **Lilikaco** – I can't resist getting Andromeda involved! I just love her. Lol :D

Also thanks to: **LFA,** **Chelsea always, articcat 621, aliasmel1, viola 1701e, RhodaBush, Natumegf, SarahF, GP00, RAV3N R1PP3R, LotusAivy, Elizabethrose 1974, Guest, PopularCats, kmplease, Mashiro 09, Alexa SixT, Forsaken Kalika, Silver Orbed Lioness, Black Banshee,** and **loves to read 234**. I hugely appreciate every one!

 **-AL**


	9. REPRESSED, REWARDED

**CHAPTER EIGHT:**

 **REPRESSED, REWARDED**

 **20th December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Hermione was… frustrated. That much was clear. It was clear from the moment he entered the cellar; she had, apparently, not inherited her parents' natural ability in Occlumency, as her thoughts were so loud they nearly drowned out his own.

She'd been cooped up too damn long. That was the primary thing running through her mind. Too damn long without seeing the sun. Too damn long without getting any exercise. Too damn long without her wand.

"My muscles are going to atrophy," she whined to Professor Snape the moment she saw him through the bars.

He'd come in from the freezing rain, his overcoat dripping, his hair plastered to his face and neck. He was in no mood to be here tonight. Slughorn's ostentatious, obnoxious waste-of-time Christmas party had been tonight, and he'd had to step out of it to deal with party crasher Malfoy, who still wouldn't give any indication of what he was up to, or how he intended to off the old man.

"Won't you take me outside, sir?" asked Hermione, her eyes wide and desperate. "I won't run away, I promise. I'll be good, I'll stay by your side the entire time. I just want to move. I want to see the stars. I want to smell the air. I want to remember how it feels to be outside."

"It looks like rain, it smells like rain, it feels like rain," he'd snapped, removing the overcoat and using a charm to dry both it and himself.

He'd used an Impervius while walking from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, but it had lifted upon apparating, thus he'd been soaked upon arrival, and he found he could not perform it again while stalking up the walkway to Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord must have placed new restrictions on the Manor's grounds. He knew only those with a Dark Mark would be able to apparate to or from the property; all others had to arrive just outside, giving ample time to ready the home in case Ministry officials wanted to investigate again, as they'd done no less than four times now.

"Please, sir, won't you-"

"I will not take you outside, Granger, and if you ask me again I shall turn and go, understood? You are my pupil, not my ward, and it is not my duty to ensure you get the chance to work those skinny legs of yours; should your muscles actually atrophy, I'm certain Mummy can get you to a Healer."

Hermione's nose twitched. He sighed. So it would be one of _those_ nights. The nights she cried instead of fighting back, the night she traded her inner fire for outer tears.

He much preferred the fire, even though it often ended with everything from his teaching skills to his very manhood impugned.

"Take out your Arithmancy text and let us begin. I have no time to waste on mindless chatter tonight, Granger."

"It's Black," she said softly, as she reached for her book. "Hermione Black. Hermione Granger is dead – or hadn't you heard? It's been reported by the Prophet." She took a copy out from between the pages of the textbook and passed it across the desk to him.

 _HERMIONE GRANGER CONFIRMED DEAD_

 _HERMIONE GRANGER, 17, was abducted by wanted Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange on 19 May after breaking into the Ministry of Magic with the intention of stealing a prophecy. A nearly seven-month investigation followed, during which a source close to the followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named reported that the girl had been questioned and killed._

 _Unable to accept this, the 'Boy Who Lived' turned 'Boy Who Lied' turned 'Boy Who Lived Again,' Harry Potter, 16, pressed the Daily Prophet, Ministry of Magic, and Hogwarts staff to look for the girl, but searches for her have proven fruitless, and, as time ticked on, it became less and less likely she would be discovered alive._

 _A break in the case came just last week, when a suspected Death Eater, name withheld, spoke candidly with Aurors about the events of last June. He reconfirmed the death of Granger at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange herself. Lestrange, as the wizarding world remembers well, was sentenced to life in Azkaban for her role in the torture of Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom in 1981._

 _Just who was Hermione Jane Granger?_

 _In an official statement put out by Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the girl was remembered fondly._

 _"Born 19 September, 1979 to Muggle dentists (cleaners of teeth), Hermione Granger was a curious and precocious girl who excelled in her studies. She was deemed by many 'the brightest witch of her age,' and Hogwarts was lucky to have her. She frequently earned House Points for Gryffindor, never turned in a late homework assignment, and was a supportive and loyal friend. She will be missed."_

 _"It's so sad," said Lavender Brown, girlfriend of Harry Potter's closest friend, Ronald Weasley. "Ron's accepted it, but Harry's in denial. I felt the same way after my rabbit, Binky, died. It can be really hard to accept someone you love is gone, especially if it happens when they're too young to die. Poor Harry hasn't been the same since it happened."_

 _"I don't want to talk about it, and neither does Harry," said Weasley gruffly, when pressed for comment. "We just want to focus on Quidditch and move on with our lives. Leave us alone."_

 _"I think Harry's gone a bit mental, actually," said friend and classmate Seamus Finnegan. "All last year, he kept saying You Know Who is back, and nobody believed him, and turns out he was right, so he thinks that means he's right about this, too, but now that her body's been found…"_

 _As reported in yesterday's Prophet, the body of a teen girl meeting Granger's description turned up in a Little Hangleton cemetery just last week. It has now been confirmed by the Muggle parents of the girl that this Jane Doe is, in fact, Hermione Granger._ _At the request of her parents, there will be no memorial service._

 _In happier news, as of 17 May, Gryffindor is the front runner to win the Quidditch Cup; By all accounts, Potter's never flown better, and with prefect Weasley as Keeper, the trophy's theirs to take._

 _"I really do hope they cinch it this year," said Padma Patil, Ravenclaw sixth year, and top of the class in Granger's absence. "Even though it would be nice to see Ravenclaw do well, I hope Gryffindor wins – I hope they win it for Hermione."_

"Well, this is touching, isn't it?" Severus threw the paper back down on the desk. "Your little friends miss you. Is that not what you wanted?"

"Oh, yes, so touching! I never turned in a late homework assignment? They're going to win the Quidditch Cup for me? They're so broken up about my death Ron's dating Lavender Brown and Harry's never flown better? The Prophet didn't even get my middle name right – it's _Jean_ , not Jane! And what's this rubbish about my parents identifying my body? My body's right here!"

She ran her hands down her sides as if to prove her point, but he did his best not to look too closely at her body – she was, again, inappropriately dressed, as far as he was concerned, in pajama pants and a thin cotton tee-shirt with no bra underneath, and the less he committed that image to memory, the better.

He might have to talk to Bellatrix about talking to her daughter about _decorum_ , but he had a feeling even bringing it up would get him hexed by the witch, and he was in no mood to spend an evening icing his bollocks.

With a sigh, he settled across from her at the desk and tapped her textbook.

Time to get to work.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21st December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Why do you goad the girl so?" Narcissa poured elf made red wine into a glass for Severus, her back to him in Lucius' study, where she'd taken to spending her evenings since her husband's arrest. Technically, now, though, it was not evening any more. Midnight had long passed.

"I assure you, I've no idea what you mean."

"I could hear her screaming obscenities at you from the kitchen. You're lucky Bella wasn't here."

Severus half-shrugged. "Your niece is full of pent up energy, frustration, aggression. Adrenaline. She's been cooped up in that cell for seven months now with little reprieve. That could make any person go mad." He nodded his thanks when she handed him the glass. "Look no farther than your sister. Look at what Azkaban did to her."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. She settled into the chair across from him, her own (very full) wine glass in hand. "Hermione isn't surrounded by Dementors in my cellar. On the contrary, we treat her quite well. She'd fed the best foods, she's given access to books and education, my sister spends time with her on a daily basis, teaching her to play chess and tame her wild hair, and last week I caught her doing something she called 'yoga,' which seems to keep her physically fit."

"But she isn't _fully_ able to exercise her body _or_ her mind. By antagonizing her, I get her riled up, and then she explodes, letting loose everything bothering her, taking her fury out on me. Afterward, she feels better– relaxed, herself again – and she subsequently maintains her sanity."

Narcissa took a long sip, surveying him carefully as she did so.

"What is it to you if the girl maintains her sanity?"

"What good is she to us without it? You know as well as I the Dark Lord isn't going to keep her around – to keep her alive – if she can't serve him in some way. As much as the girl irks me…" He sneered. "She has a brilliant mind, and she is good with a wand."

"Yes, well, with parents like hers, why shouldn't she be?"

"But the Dark Lord is not the most patient man. He doesn't want her if she's devoted to Dumbledore and Potter, and he won't want her if her mind is addled like that of Alice Longbottom." He sipped. "By instigating an emotional explosion, I do my part to keep her sane, give her an outlet for her anger, and, if I'm being completely honest, I benefit from the break in monotony. Do you have any idea how very dull it is to educate a girl who knows everything?"

Narcissa smirked. "You prefer teaching 'dunderheads' to teaching 'know-it-alls,' Severus?"

"I prefer _not_ teaching." He downed half the glass in two gulps.

Narcissa, scandalized by such uncouth behavior, curled her lip. "Slow down, Severus, for Salazar's sake. That isn't a cold butterbeer on a hot day. This is an 1852-"

"Why waste your best vintage on me?" Just to annoy her, he took another swig. Hermione Granger wasn't the only woman he enjoyed whipping into a frenzy, but Narcissa wasn't having it tonight, apparently. She merely sipped her own wine quietly and avoided looking at him until his glass was empty.

"Could I trouble you for another?"

She gestured toward the cabinet along the opposite wall. "Take the cheap one this time, if you don't mind. It's on the far right. With no offense intended, I'd rather not waste another drop of _this_ on a man who refuses to appreciate it."

He chuckled as he rose and went to the cabinet, perfectly happy to oblige and not at all offended. Both in his Hogwarts office and at home on Spinner's End, he kept elf made red wine on hand, as it was one of his preferred drinks, but he never spent more than three galleons a bottle. Anything more was unnecessary, as far as he was concerned. He couldn't taste the difference, and as an accomplished potions master with an impeccable palate and sense of smell, that was certainly saying something.

"I miss my Lucius." Narcissa, for all her lecturing and dirty looks, was nearly done with her own first glass. "The Dark Lord broke Bella out, and the others, in January. Nearly a year ago. Which means he has the capability. But he's done nothing for my Lucius."

"Perhaps he thinks your Lucius has done nothing for him." Severus returned to his chair, facing her. She had her legs curled up under her bum, her long skirt fanned out around her in the overlarge chair. She was impeccable dressed, as always, but her hair was down and dull and going gray at the roots, she wore no makeup, and her dark purple nail polish was chipped all to hell. He wondered whether this was due to depression over the situations with her husband and son, or whether she simply didn't have anyone to impress on a daily basis with Lucius behind bars.

"I've tried to speak with the girl," Narcissa confessed. "I've been trying for a month, but it seems as soon as I start a conversation, there's Bella, or you, or the Dark Lord, or that damned house elf with the stuffy nose…"

"Binx."

"Binx, the new one, yes. And I never manage to-"

"Why are you so desperate to speak with her?"

Narcissa swallowed what was left of her wine. Rather than rising to refill, she Accioed over the bottle.

"She's here and she's brilliant, isn't that what you said?" (He nodded.) "Well then, why shouldn't I try to make use of her?" She poured a second glass, just as over-filled as the last. "I want my husband back, and I want my son to successfully complete his task. I believe the girl can help me. Help us."

He chortled, leaned back in his chair, and shook his head.

"Of course she _could_ , Narcissa… but why should she _want_ to?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-December, 1975**

 **(21 years ago)**

He hadn't Summoned her to his side in over six weeks, since Halloween. Since the night she'd arrived wearing her "Wednesday best," and practically begged him to fuck her.

How very badly he'd wanted to oblige.

But he maintained at least a little distance. This was always the challenge, of course, and had been for four years. He got off on watching her get off, on knowing his mere presence combined with the requested movements of her nimble fingers was enough to bring her to climax, but he would be lying if he said he didn't want more.

Much more.

Everything.

This was dangerous, though.

As he'd told her repeatedly, he was one to eschew the pleasures of the flesh; he did not need a woman, nor would he allow for one to become his downfall.

But she did not want to be his downfall.

She wanted to elevate him. To worship him.

To give herself completely to him.

And he wanted that.

On Halloween, they'd come close. Too close. He'd ordered her to the bed, ordered her to remove her attire, ordered her to fondle her own breasts and finger herself and display herself to him, and for the first time he'd not hidden his erection. – on the contrary, he'd let her grind against it in the chair, and he'd let her watch him touch himself through the fabric of those restrictive Muggle trousers.

But he hadn't unbuttoned the fly. He hadn't exposed himself.

He didn't trust himself.

He didn't trust himself not to have ended up inside her, filling her, riding her… achieving bliss with her…

And this was dangerous.

Still…

It was a few days before Christmas, 1975, and he was bored.

He was bored, and he wanted…

More.

Everything.

He examined his Dark Mark and counted down from fifty, giving himself ample opportunity to change his mind, but ultimately, at one he wanted her as much as he had at fifty, and so he pressed a finger to the vivid red tattoo, Summoning her and her alone.

He was seated in his usual chair when she arrived, one glass of champagne in his right hand, and another in his left.

"You Summoned me, my Lord?"

She didn't look like she'd wasted time getting pretty for him tonight. On the contrary, she must have been in the shower and apparated immediately; he wondered if she'd even shut off the tap. Her hair was dripping in loose ringlets, leaving watermarks on the wood floor, and she was wrapped in a white cotton towel, no shoes.

"You… did not make me wait tonight."

"No, my Lord." She tucked some of that wet hair behind her ear. "The burn of the Mark… it seemed more intense than usual. I thought that… that meant you might need me more than usual."

"What if I'd been summoning you into battle, Bellatrix?" He hissed her name, the way he knew she liked, and even from his position half across the room he could see the goosebump sprouting up as a result. Unless, of course, she was just cold. He considered flicking his wand at the dying fire, but ultimately decided he didn't mind her cold… it made her nipples stand at attention as well, which he liked.

"I brought my wand." She held it up. "That's all I need to be ready for battle."

He stared at her for a long moment, enjoying the way she squirmed under his gaze, and then he laughed, a booming laugh.

"You would rush into battle with wet hair, wrapped in a towel, armed with your wand…"

"And I would emerge the victor, my Lord, yes." Her lips curled into a sly smile. "If you don't believe me, challenge me to a duel. Right here and now. I'll prove it."

"All you'd have to do to win is distract me, Bellatrix, and I daresay you could accomplish that by simply dropping the towel."

She reached for the spot where it was tucked in, under her right arm, and her grin grew.

"Is that _all_ I'd have to do to conquer you, my Lord? Don't tempt me."

"It is you who is the temptress, Bella."

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. He'd never used her nickname before. Only her parents and sisters called her that, and he could see hearing it from his lips made an impact on her. He smiled.

"Remove the towel, Bella. Dry your hair. I'll wait."

(Wait. And watch.)

She obliged, letting it fall almost to the floor before catching it. She bent to dry her hair, flipping it over her face, letting it drip onto his expensive floors. He knew as well as she that a drying charm could do it faster and more efficiently, but neither made mention of it.

Once the curls were sufficiently dry (dry enough, at any rate) he ordered her to the bed, as usual.

"But now I'm cold, my Lord." She pouted out her lip and blinked slowly, her head tilted down, too sweet and naïve a look for her. Sure enough, her nipples were perfectly hardened pink pebbles, and he felt a tug in his groin as he unapologetically stared hungrily at them.

"My Lord?" she whispered, as she positioned herself on his bed. "Warm me?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **20th December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Your skin is ice cold," he snapped, as if she was freezing on purpose. "You'll be the death of me."

"My skin is ice cold because _you_ won't keep a fire going at night," she snapped back, in no mood tonight. He refused to light a fire on the off-chance an Auror or Dumbledore would Floo in while he was asleep, even though the Malfoys were no longer connected to the Floo Network at all, and even though the room, Manor, and grounds were heavily warded.

"You have become obstinate in your old age, Bellatrix." He rolled over, taking all of the blankets with him, leaving her exposed to the dark, chilly room they were sharing at Malfoy Manor. "It's unbecoming."

"In _my_ old age?" She cackled. "You're nearly _twice_ my age!"

"Hardly."

"Hardly?" She reached for the blanket and pulled it back, burying herself under it. "When were you born? 1870?"

"1926. You know that." He pulled back.

She refused to let go.

"Twenty-five years before I was."

"That would only make me twice your age if you were still twenty-five." He yanked harder, taking all of the blankets again. "You're nowhere near. Clearly."

"I'm going to go sleep elsewhere," she threatened. "There are a dozen bedrooms here."

"Be my guest. Nagini will see you out."

"I am serious, my Lord. I'm going to sleep downstairs."She slipped from the bed, grabbed her pillow, and went to the hook on the door for her dressing gown. "I said I'm serious!"

"You're not serious," he mumbled into his own pillow, contentedly wrapped in the blankets. "Sirius is dead, remember? Since May. You're Bellatrix."

" _Funny_." She scowled, opened the door, and glanced back, giving him ample opportunity to ask her to stay, but when no such request came she stepped into the hall and slammed the door.

Let the noseless old snake sleep alone.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-December, 1975**

 **(21 years ago)**

She was on her back, her fingertips trailing down her side, touching everywhere except the place he wanted to see her touch. Her fingertips circled around her areola, but made no contact with the hardened nipples, they ghosted over her inner thighs, but avoided her slick, aching pussy.

It wasn't easy for her to tease herself in this way, not when she was genuinely desperate for the touch, but it was worth it to watch him shift and squirm and fight back a groan.

He wore a wizard's robe tonight, but already it was parted to reveal a soft cotton shirt and cotton bottoms underneath. His sleepwear, perhaps? Her breath hitched in her throat when he slid the trousers down just enough to take his erect cock in hand. She'd never seen it before; it was difficult not to stare. How she wished she was the one running her hand up and down his shaft, rather than letting him do it himself…

But he was getting closer to her.

He was kneeling on the end of the bed.

He was positioning himself between her legs.

"Touch yourself, Bella." It was as if it pained him to speak the request. No, not a request. A demand.

She moved two fingers to her clit and began moving in slow circles, her hips bucking just a bit as her breathing became increasingly erratic. She'd never before done this with him at such close proximity. He leaned over her, loomed over her, nearly touching her abdomen with his tip. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and whimpered as his free hand went to her breast. She slipped one finger inside, followed by a second, eliciting a moan and a smile from the man above her, and fucked herself as she wished for him to do.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the moistened pad of his thumb grazing back and forth across her nipple. "You'll be the death of me, Bellatrix Lestrange."

"I want you to live forever, my Lord."

"I intend to."

He managed to hold off until she'd brought herself to climax. He took her wrist in his hand, brought her wet fingers up to his mouth, and sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact.

"My Lord…" she whimpered helplessly, her entire body throbbing and tingling. "I want nothing more than to please you, my Lord."

"I know," he replied. And then, with a guttural groan, he came, spilling himself across her lower abdomen.

When he was spent, she Accioed over her towel, intending to clean up, but he took it from her, tossing it to the other side of the bed.

"When you were last here, you left something behind."

He rose and went to his wardrobe, from which he removed the sheer black robe she'd worn over her negligee.

"You will wear this home."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Home to my husband?"

"Come here."

She crawled from the bed, making her way quickly to him, ignoring the sticky mess that was now running down her left thigh. He helped her into the sheer robe, kissed her forehead, slipped her wand into her hand, and smiled.

"Home to your husband, yes. I want him to see you like this." He kissed her temple this time, not pulling away before he spoke again. "Goodnight, my Bella."

She nodded, wishing he'd let her spend the night, but not bold enough to even ask.

"Good night, my Lord."

Four years he'd been Summoning her to his bedroom at night, and they'd yet to even kiss.

But, that night, when he called her 'my Bella,' with his lips to her temple, something between them changed.

And their relationship would never be the same.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21st December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

The entire bottle of 1852 elf made red wine was gone, as was half a bottle of the 'cheap stuff' and quite a bit of Firewhisky, and, as a result, Narcissa positively _swayed_ when she walked.

"Let me escort you to your room," said Severus, holding out his arm, no picture of sobriety himself in the moment. But she looped hers through, nodding gratefully.

They went especially slow on the stairs, as he was afraid she'd pass out and tumble down, perhaps taking him along for the ride, but at long last they reached the door to the master bedroom.

"Thank you for sspending time with me, Ssev'russ," she slurred as he released her. She stumbled toward her door, turned the knob without unlocking it, and crashed into the wood. "Ouch."

He steadied her, tapped the wand with his wand, and murmured, "Alohomora."

"Passssword. Draco."

"Oh, good, no one would guess that." He rolled his eyes, tapped the knob again, and said, "Draco."

The door opened and they nearly fell as she stumbled back, not relinquishing her hold on him. Thankfully, he was able to keep them both on their feet, though he swore while doing so.

"Ssev'russ?" She clutched the front of his frock coat as if for dear life. "Thank you for being my friend." She kissed his cheekbone. Then lower on his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. He moved to pull away, but she tightened her grip, pressing her lips to his.

"Nrshisha…" It was difficult to speak with their mouths mashed together, but he attempted. "You dnt wnt thish."

"You're a good friend," she whispered against his lips. She kissed him again, eyes closed. Her mouth was warm and tasted of wine and he almost – _almost_ – wanted to give in, but by sheer willpower he was able to pull back. He then her wrists firmly in his hands, keeping them up by his chest, with their arms pinned between their bodies like a barrier.

"I've never known a woman who loved her husband more than you do Lucius."

"I love Luciusss…" Her eyes filled with tears of shame. "I want my… my Luccc… Oh, I'm sssorry. I… I love my… Luc… My…"

"I know." He slipped an arm around her waist and helped her through the door, leading her all the way to her bed. She flopped onto it, on her back, across the middle of the mattress. He removed her shoes, turned her, and Accioed over an afghan from the rocking chair in the corner, which he draped over her body. He certainly wasn't going to be changing her into a nightdress or helping her get settled under the blankets, but he felt a bit guilty over having let her get so drunk in his presence – he simply hadn't been in the mood to drink alone.

He extinguished the light and left her wand, which had slipped out of her sleeve, on the bedside table, then hurried from the room and locked the door behind him.

He mentally cursed himself as he stalked down the second set of stairs to the front hall. Between Slughorn's party and conversation with Narcissa, he'd had too much to drink too, which was especially dangerous for a man of many secrets and questionable loyalties. He also cursed himself over the way his cock, which got too little attention as of late, had twitched with excited anticipation at her kiss. Could he have taken her to bed, fucked her to completion, and thoroughly enjoyed it? Of course. Would she then spend the rest of their natural born lives crying over how much she regretted it, making him feel like a fucking heel? Of course.

He wrenched the front door open and was about to step out when he realized it was pouring. Still. A torrential downpour, worse than earlier in the evening.

And he'd left his bloody overcoat down in Hermione's cellar… in her cell.

Surely she'd be asleep by now? It was well after midnight. He could slip down, Accio it through the bars, and return to Hogwarts without being seen in this embarrassing state of inebriation.

It was either that or get soaked through to the bone on the walk from the step to the apparition point - and considering how cold he already was on account of the wine running through his veins (which always dropped his temperature a few degrees) he didn't look forward to the trek.

He swore yet again and slammed the door. He'd have to go to the cellar to retrieve the overcoat.

He hoped she'd be sound asleep. She didn't need to see her professor stumbling around, red-eyed and reeking of Firewhisky.

He had an image to maintain.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21st December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Hermione was indeed frustrated. She needed to move, needed to expel energy, needed to get out. She didn't care what she had to do if it meant getting out from behind these bars, if it meant the freedom to feel the sun and the rain and see the night stars – for real, not from an enchanted window without a breeze. She would punch Ron. She would hex Harry. She would tell off Dumbledore to his face She might even pledge her allegiance to the so-called Dark Lord, so long as it meant she (and her wand) could experience life outside these prison walls again.

"You're losing it, Hermione," she muttered allowed. She spent a little time tidying up her small cell, putting everything in its place, not that too many things were ever out of place. She came across an overcoat – oh, Professor Snape must have left it behind.

With a jolt of excitement over the possibility he'd left his wand inside, she began checking pockets. The bloody overcoat had a million pockets. But after sticking her small hands inside each one no less than three times to be certain, all she'd found was a piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, an empty potions vial, and some lint.

Too bad.

She flopped back onto her bed, keeping the coat with her. Even though he'd dried it, it still smelled of the rain. It smelled of outside. It smelled of Hogwarts.

It smelled of him.

Cheap shampoo and the familiar musk of the dungeons; though he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor now, he must still live in the bowels of the castle, not far from the Slytherin Common Room.

She buried herself under the coat like a blanket and let her mind wander back to Hogwarts.

So Draco was right about Ron moving on. He was seeing Lavender Brown – Lavender Brown, who compared Hermone's murder to the death of her stupid rabbit – and playing Keeper.

She used to like him. She wasn't quite sure when the crush started to develop. Somewhere around the middle of third year, maybe? But it had gotten more intense during fourth, and then…

There was Viktor Krum.

And unlike Harry and Ron, Viktor saw her as a female, and appreciated what he saw. She was more than a walking textbook to Viktor, she was beautiful, and it felt nice. He'd been her first kiss and her first 'more than kiss,' and she didn't regret any of it, not being in his arms at the Yule Ball (though he wasn't much of a dancer) and not being felt up under her uniform shirt in the astronomy tower the last night she met him up there, a few days before the final task.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture it, tried to bring herself mentally back there as her fingers moved south, under her pajama bottoms, but over her knickers.

It wasn't enough, though. Not tonight.

So her mind played with other scenarios – the inappropriate movie she'd caught on television one night when her parents were out, that bawdy, tawdry erotic novel she'd secretly borrowed from her mother's lingerie drawer, that time she'd walked in on Parvati Patil and a sixth year Hufflepuff girl topless and attached at the lips in their dorm…

"Silly, stupid girl…" she heard Parvati's voice say. But… no. It wasn't Parvati's voice. It was _his_. Professor Snape's. "What do you expect from them? A parade?"

"I expect them to mourn me!" she'd shouted. "I'm not you, Professor! People _like_ me!"

"Yes," he'd agreed. "They liked you so much, they're going to win the Quidditch Cup for you."

And then she'd said a few more things, and he'd said a few more things, and, finally, as the fury exploded dangerously out of her, she'd said something she never would've imagined herself capable of saying to a professor, not even one as snarky and impossible as Severus Snape.

"GO FUCK YOURSELF, SIR!"

She groaned, her fingers moving faster over her knickers now. Her other hand snaked up her cotton pajama shirt, clutching at her breast, as her hips bucked. A giggle threatened to escape her lips. "Go fuck yourself," she'd shouted, and now here she was… thinking of him… and doing as she'd suggested he should…

He hadn't punished her for it. Hadn't raised his voice or his wand or his hand… but she almost wished he would. She wanted him to yell back. To challenge her to a duel. To spank her…

"Go fuck yourself, professor," she said aloud as one finger slid under the fabric of her knickers, coming into direct contact with her clit. "Go… fuck… yourself…"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21st December, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Severus paused, his jaw dropped, and he nearly rubbed his eyes like a cartoon character, wondering if he was really seeing what he thought he was.

Hermione Granger – no, Black – was on her back on her bed, his coat half slung over her, with one hand buried in her pajama bottoms and the other roughly squeezing her pale, lovely, exposed breast, and she was…

Groaning. Muttering. Moaning.

He crept forward to better hear, as she couldn't possibly have said what he thought she did. But no, there it was again.

 _"Go… fuck… yourself… professor."_

He smirked.

Given the circumstances, that didn't seem like a bad idea.

He knew he'd feel like a lech for it in the morning, but this had to be better than fucking his closest friend's drunk wife, and so he felt only marginally guilty about hiding in the shadows, ensuring he was in a good position from which to watch her, and unbuttoning the fly of his trousers.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you to everyone for your feedback on **Chapter Seven** (which was accidentally labeled six! Fixed now! My apologies.) I will respond to reviews at the end of the next chapter, but I appreciate every one! :)

Coming Up in **Chapter Nine** : Happy Christmas!, past and present! Plus, Draco returns from Hogwarts with news.

Coming Up in **Chapter Ten** : New Year, New Hermione? And the Dark Lord presents Bellatrix with an ultimatum that may change everything.

 **-AL**


	10. CHRISTMAS

**TRIGGER WARNING** for non-graphic references to past sexual assault, violence, and torture.

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE:**

 **CHRISTMAS**

 **Christmas Eve Morning, 1996**

 **(the present)**

It was the morning of Christmas Eve, and seventeen-year-old Hermione Granger was hoping for only one gift to come the following day: the return of her wand.

"I know what you're thinking." Bellatrix, still in her pajamas and dressing gown, was puttering about the cellar cell. "Your wand will be returned to you only when the Dark Lord believes you can be trusted with it. As much as I want to trust you – and I do, you know I do – I cannot swear to him that your allegiance has changed, nor can Snape, and until that happens…" She shrugged. "If I'm not mistaken, he intends to allow Snape to teach you more complicated magic in the new year, which means having your wand for short periods of time as necessary during your instruction, but it may be some time before…" She let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

"Maybe I'll learn to do wandless magic in the meantime." Hermione flopped back against her pillows. She pointed a thin finger toward a mouse stirring in the corner of the cell. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The mouse did not move.

Bellatrix set down her wand, and held out her own finger. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The mouse levitated about three feet in the air. Its small feet scurried, but without a floor beneath it, there was no way to run. It squeaked and twisted, panicking.

"I was nearly twenty before I managed to perform my first _intentional_ wandless spell. I Stupified an Auror who had charged into my home in the middle of the night. My wand was in my bedside table drawer, but when he burst into my bedroom I didn't have the time to reach for it. Rodolphus wanted to kill him, but I thought it would be smarter to modify his memory and send him back to the Ministry believing he'd carried out a raid of our cottage house and found nothing. Contrary to popular belief, I do not always dive straight into murder. Not only do I prefer to have a little more fun when it comes time to duel, I am capable of recognizing when the enemy's death would do more harm than good. And I don't indiscriminately kill. Life is precious; I'll not take it without purpose."

Bellatrix turned back to the bookshelves, running her left index finger along the spines of the books. The moment her right hand dropped, the mouse fell back to the floor and scampered off, no doubt to warn his mousey family and mousey friends. Hermione was almost sad to see him go. In the absence of Crookshanks, she wouldn't have minded a pet.

Bellatrix returned to her task for the morning: reorganizing what Hermione had already organized. She was moving around her clothes and books and parchment, plus dusting and find places for the few other trinkets and academic supplies Hermione had gathered over the last seven months.

Bellatrix reached for her wand and swore under her breath. "It looks like a teenager lives here."

"A teenager _does_ live here," Hermione retorted testily, but in the true fashion of a mother of a teenager, Bellatrix ignored this.

"If you keep your textbooks arranged alphabetically by subject rather than by the last name of the author…"

"I like them by last name of the author."

"Don't be silly." Bellatrix waved her wand, and the books flew from their shelves, switched around in midair, and returned to their spots, but in a new order. "The Dark Lord appreciates organization and cleanliness. He would not be pleased to see clothes strewn about…" She waved her wand again, sending all of the socks and cotton shirts and pajama bottoms to the newly-installed laundry chute – which sucked them up rather than sending them down, so that the house-elves in the room off the kitchen could launder them without accidentally being set free in the process.

"I preferred washing my own in the sink and hanging them to dry. I don't like house-elves doing extra work for me. And the Dark Lord won't see my clothes strewn about. He never comes down here."

"Professor Snape does." Bellatrix nodded at a pair of knickers flying by, toward the chute. "Do you want _him_ to see your unmentionables?"

Hermione had, in fact, had a number of inappropriate fantasies over the last couple of weeks that involved the potions master more than simply _seeing_ her underclothes, but she shook her head obediently and apologized to the woman. To Bellatrix. To her mother.

She sighed.

"Mother?"

She couldn't keep calling her Mummy, as she'd finally told her two nights prior. 'Mummy' is a word little girls use, she'd said. 'It makes me feel like a toddler.' To her surprise, Bellatrix hadn't seemed too put out by this.

"Yes?" Now Bellatrix was focused on her meagre potions ingredients. Snape only left behind so much, as it wouldn't do to have her brewing whatever she wished in his absence.

"Tell me about your husband."

Bellatrix dropped a vial of dragon's blood, uttered the same swear she'd used before, and waved her wand, fixing the glass and sending the contents back inside. She set the vial back on its shelf – another new addition to the cell – and moved to settle on the end of Hermione's bed.

"Why?"

"Do you love him?"

There was a pause, and Hermione almost wondered if this question was one she should have kept to herself, as the woman – her mother – had an unreadable face that left her ill at ease.

Then, Bellatrix laughed.

"Love him? No. There was nothing in my marriage contract requiring me to love him, thank Merlin. To honor and obey was bad enough." She tossed back her hair. It was still full, but tamer today than usual. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm curious. I've been here over seven months now... it's been seven months since Dolohov's curse, since Rodolphus tried to… to rape me…" Hermione squirmed. She hated to think about it and hated even more to talk about it. It was the first time she'd said that word aloud, and it felt dirty in her mouth. "Were you going to let him? I… I know you didn't know who I was, but he's your husband. You were going to let your husband-"

"I am not his keeper," Bellatrix replied coldly. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, distant. She did not look at her daughter. "It does not matter to me which witches my husband fucks, so long as I don't have to be one of them."

"But he was-"

"The Dark Lord is not a proponent of rape." Bellatrix slipped her wand up her pajama sleeve and folded her hands in her lap. She, like Hermione, was seated cross-legged on the edge of the bed, learning slightly forward with poor posture; they could be bookends. "The Dark Lord believes there are more effective measures of torture, especially when gathering information or proving a point, and when one has outlived his or her usefulness, one should die. To rape is to debase one's self, he believes. To lower one's self to the level of Muggles, who know no better, who are just above being animals and therefore slaves to their more primitive instincts. We harness magic, we can do better, we are better. Unfortunately, there are wizards like Rodolphus who've not managed to absorb that, who choose to use their bodies as weapons rather than rely on their wands."

She was still avoiding eye contact with Hermione, but more than that, it was as if she wasn't _seeing_ her at all. It was almost as if she was giving a speech to a nonexistent audience. Hermione furrowed her brow. This, as far as she was concerned, was no answer to her question.

"But you would have let him rape me," she pushed. "Your husband. Doesn't it bother you-"

"A great many things my… _Rodolphus_ … has done bother me." She shook her head as if clearing it and smiled stiffly at Hermione. "Why pick apart the past, love? It's Christmas Eve. Let's-"

"Did you love him when you married him?" Hermione interrupted, hoping her impertinence would not be punished. "Did he love you? Did you want children together? Do you still?"

The forced smile on the woman's – Bellatrix's – face immediately dissipated. "I never loved him, we did not want children together save for the son I was required to give him. 'One male heir' read the contractual obligation. Our marriage was arranged. I was only marginally older than you are now, I had no choice in the matter, my opinion did not matter, but my parents assured me it was a good match and so I did my duty as their daughter and agreed to it. We wed in April, 1970, and were divorced in-"

"You're divorced?" Had Hermione not been leaning back against the wall, she might have fallen over.

"Must we talk about this?" Bellatrix stood, tossed her hair again, and turned back to the shelf on which Hermione had placed her potions vials. "If you arranged these alphabetically by type – the liquids together, the powders, the cloves – you'd find it easier to access what you seek when you need it."

Hermione climbed out of bed too. Her muscles ached and her bones creaked – she spent far too much time in far too little space, and was frequently confined to bed for lack of any place better to be – and joined her mother… the woman… at the far wall.

"I like them the way they are," she said.

"Nonsense, Hermione," said the woman. Said her _mother_. "Let Mummy make it better."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Eve Day, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Childhood home of Sirius Black.

"Snape," said Lupin, nodding politely. He was seated at the table, as were Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Moody, and half a dozen Weasleys.

"Lupin." Snape inclined his head in greeting. His eyes swept over the rest of the crowd, skipping over glaring Potter and discerning Dumbledore and settling on the family matriarch, the only other person standing. "Molly."

"Professor Snape." She sniffled. She was by the stove, wearing an apron, stirring what looked like a thick soup or stew. "We were talking about Hermione."

"Where is she, Snape?" Potter stood, nearly knocking over his chair, pointing his wand in the man's direction. Severus did not flinch or step back; he acted as though he hadn't noticed.

 _"Professor_ Snape, Harry," corrected Dumbledore. His eyes were trained on the potions master. "Any news?"

"She is dead."

Molly whimpered, Lupin swore under his breath, Arthur tutted, and the ginger girl wiped at her cheek, but Potter continued to hold his pose… and his glare.

"But if she's not…" Potter started.

Severus, shaking his head, held up a hand to silence him.

"As far as I have been informed, she is dead. I cannot continue inquiring about her or word will get back to the Dark Lord, and he will become suspicious, wondering why I do not trust him or his…" Severus cut himself off. He almost referred to Bellatrix as his 'mistress,' but thought better of it. "His first lieutenant, Bellatrix Lestrange. She assures me she kidnapped, questioned, and killed Miss Granger. I have no reason to doubt her story beyond Potter's intuition, which is to say, no reason at all, as the boy is hardly a Seer." Severus sneered at him. "He couldn't even manage basic Occlumency or as passing grade in Divination, but he wants us to believe…"

"I _saw_ her!" shouted Potter. "In my dream, I _saw_ her! I _saw_ her on the floor of a large, fancy room, I _saw_ Bellatrix Lestrange examining the back of her leg, I _saw_ purple burns all down her-"

"Burns?" Girl Weasley interrupted. "That's not a burn. Hermione has a birthmark, a purple birthmark, down one leg. I asked her about it when we shared the tent during the Quidditch World Cup. She's always had it. It's not a burn."

"See?" Potter slammed his hand on the table. "That proves it wasn't a dream, like you all keep telling me! How could I have known she had a marking if I hadn't seen it?"

"Perhaps you _did_ see it," said Severus calmly. "But she has since been questioned and killed. If she were still alive, surely, I would know."

"Surely, you would," said Dumbledore quietly.

"Harry, I am sorry, but perhaps it is time to accept-" started Lupin, but the boy wasn't having it.

"I know she's not bloody dead! I know he's a liar! Just like I know Malfoy is up to something and-"

"This again about Malfoy!" Now Ronald Weasley was the one slamming his hands on the table. Both of them. He stood, facing off against his friend. "I miss Hermione too, and I hate Malfoy as much as you do, but we have to face facts – he'd not up to anything besides being a miserable git and she's never coming back! She's not coming back, Harry! Sirius isn't coming back, Percy isn't coming back, and Hermione is _never coming back!_ "

Ronald's chair scraped as he pushed it aside. He stalked from the room, nearly barreling into Severus, who stepped aside just in time.

"You're upsetting everyone, Harry," Girl Weasley said softly. "It's Christmas. Can't we just… just be thankful for those of us who are still here?"

Molly burst into sobs. Arthur rose to take her in his arms. Lupin lowered his head, Moody pinched the bridge of his nose, and the twins exchanged a significant glance. Harry slowly returned to his seat, wand down.

There was a ruckus by the door then, setting off screams from the portrait of Mrs. Black, the usual nonsense about filth and Mudbloods defiling her home. Severus sighed.

"Don't anyone get up. I'll see who it is."

He stepped into the small foyer at the end of the hall to find Nymphadora Tonks shaking snow off her winter hat. She pulled shut the curtain and said a few choice words of her own.

"Bad morning?" asked Severus.

She startled.

"Oh, I didn't see you. Yes, bad morning. Had a nasty row with my mother."

"She doesn't want you see the werewolf?"

Tonks shot him a look of intense dislike. "Don't call him that. And no, not that it's any of your concern, but she doesn't. For a woman who abandoned her entire family to marry a Muggleborn, she's remarkably prejudice against those who aren't…"

"Aren't…?" prompted Severus. "Aren't… fully human?"

"He's fully human."

A wicked smile tugged at the corner of Severus' lips. "He doesn't want you, Nymphadora. Run home to mummy, where you're safe. It's the smart thing to do. Mummy doesn't want you with Lupin, and Lupin doesn't want you at all."

"He doesn't know what he wants."

"He knows he's not good enough for you."

"He doesn't know how good he truly is!"

"He knows you could do better. You deserve better." He leaned forward. His lips were so close to her ear he could almost taste her face wash. "You deserve better, just as Mummy says. And Lupin knows it."

"He knows you're a nasty, bitter old man and you're wasting my time." She attempted to push by him. He caught her by the elbow.

"Old? I'm several months younger than your werewolf." He dropped his voice. "Does Mummy know you've already attempted to mate with him? Does he know you intend to provide him with a little pup? Do you think that's the way to his heart, Nymphadora? Trapping him into heading up a family?"

"You don't know a damn bit about it." Again she tried to pull away. He held firmly. Now she was the one to speak in a harsh whisper. "My mother assures me Hermione is still alive. What do you have to say to that?"

"Your mother is delusional."

"My mother is never wrong. When she feels something strongly-"

"On this, she is wrong."

"I don't think so, Professor." Tonks pulled away, this time successfully, as he lowered his hands. "My mother knows more about Hermione than you could ever hope to, and, eventually, we'll find her."

He raised his hands as if to say 'be my guest,' and smiled. She stalked furiously toward the kitchen, tripped over her own trainers, knocked over a vase, and set Mrs. Black off again.

Severus did not bother resetting the curtain across her. He went straight to the door and out into the cold. Goading and needling Nymphadora Tonks didn't feel nearly as good as it used to; he supposed this was Hermione's fault, as she'd proven a much better sparring partner as of late.

Perhaps he had time to visit her tonight, what with Dumbledore out of the castle – he wouldn't have to answer to his whereabouts, so long as he returned to the castle before the Headmaster.

But he couldn't very well go empty handed, not on Christmas Eve. No, that would be rude, and while his mother hadn't done much for him during his childhood, she'd at least raised him better than that. He would have to go shopping.

But what to get for a girl who could have both everything and nothing, a girl who has _need_ for both everything and nothing?

What, indeed.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Eve Day, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Auntie?"

Hermione had grown accustomed to Narcissa's new title much faster than she had that of Bellatrix, presumably because she'd had a mother from four months old on, but never before an aunt.

"Yes, Hermione?"

Narcissa was bringing her lunch today and they were to eat together. Bellatrix was 'out,' that was all Hermione knew, and Draco was 'busy' much to Narcissa's chagrin. Hermione wondered whether they were 'out' being 'busy' together, perhaps doing something nefarious or dangerous on the part of the Dark Lord. That would explain Narcissa's nervous disposition… and the smell of wine already on her breath. She and Hermione sat across from each other at the desk Hermione used for homework and lessons, drinking tea and eating crustless finger sandwiches, "just a little something" to get her through from an early breakfast to a late supper, which she'd be eating in the dining room.

"This morning, I asked Bel… Mother… about her husband."

"Rodolphus?"

"Yes."

"What of him?"

Hermione wasn't sure how to start the conversation, but after a moment's pause, decided to dive straight in (the way her mother swore she did _not_ do when it came to murder).

"At the Ministry of Magic, that night I was capt… er… rescued…" She had to be careful about her terminology, of course. Captured implied she was a prisoner, there against her will, which would make the Dark Lord think she was still faithful to the Order. Rescued was a reminder that she had actually been kidnapped long before, raised by parents who were not truly hers, and only recently reunited with her mother.

"Yes?"

"Rodolphus… he tried to rape me."

Narcissa stiffened. Her back went rigid, her hand froze with her mug halfway to her lips.

"Did he?"

"He didn't manage. Mother saved me. But when I asked her about it, she said… she said the Dark Lord doesn't promote… or maybe doesn't permit… but my mother, do you reckon she would have let him do it? Without knowing who I was, do you suppose she would have stood by while he-"

"I don't wish to talk about it." Narcissa rose, waved her wand, and vanished her tea and plate. "A house-elf will come to collect your dishes in half an hour. Dinner is at eight tonight. Be dressed and…" Narcissa looked Hermione up and down critically, taking in the frazzled hair, stained pajama pants, and oversized jumper. "Decent looking by seven-forty."

"You're not going to stay and eat with me?" Hermione hadn't even taken a bite yet.

Narcissa shook her head. "I've just remembered a previous engagement. My apologies. Until tonight... and... and we must never speak of this again, do you understand? Not ever. You must never ask me again."

She swept from the room faster than Lockhart had the time those Cornish Pixies destroyed his classroom.

Hermione, stunned and confused, nibbled her sandwich alone, book in hand, and slowly sipped her tea until it had gone cold.

All she had wanted to know was that her mother wouldn't have really let him do it, that her mother wasn't really the sort of awful person who would stand idly by while her husband defiled a girl in that way – even if she was thought to be a Mudblood and the enemy. All she'd wanted to know was that she wasn't born of a woman who wouldn't be sickened and furious at the very thoughts.

But now…

Now she wanted to know much more.

She wanted to know what secret the Black sisters were keeping from her.

And why.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Eve, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix knelt behind Hermione on the bed, plaiting her hair in two long French braids. The first was tied with a silvery ribbon. The second was giving Bellatrix a bit of trouble.

"Thick, full-bodied, damn near unmanageable hair, we Blacks have. Narcissa too, though she pays a small fortune to keep hers thinned and straightened and blonde."

"She's not naturally blonde?" Hermione started to turn to look at her mother, but Bellatrix forced her face straight again.

"If you ask her, she'll tell you she is." Bellatrix chucked. "She's as blonde as I am ginger. There's more dye in her hair than there is in the back room at Madam Malkin's."

"Does Madam Malkin dye her own fabrics?"

"You're full of questions today, my love." Bellatrix tugged, making Hermione wince, as she wrestled another section of hair into the braid. "Speaking of… you mustn't ask Cissy… what you did today. By the time Draco and I returned, she was too pissed to stand without assistance."

 _Ah_ , thought Hermione. _So they_ had _been out together._

"Why did she rush off during lunch?"

"You upset her."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, more curiously than apologetically. "How?"

Bellatrix took a long moment before responding. "Your friend, Harry Potter, he believes in good versus evil, light versus dark, them versus us. We're the dark, the 'them,' the evil. That's what he believes. Doesn't he?"

Hermione winced again – having her hair done _hurt!_ – and then nodded. "I suppose."

"But it's not that way. We are not evil. They are the evil ones, the wicked, the wrong. They-"

"The Dark Lord wants to eradicate Muggleborns like m… like my friends. He-"

"He wants to return magic to those who deserve it, those born with it, not those who have stolen it. Not those who seek to control what is rightfully ours. And then he intends to return us all to our rightful place – we have been degraded, _downgraded_ , trapped under the thumbs of Muggles for too long. The Statute of Secrecy keep us in our place, and our place is beneath the Muggles, when we should be elevated. They control us. They subjugate us and force us to hide who we are, to pretend we don't exist. They dress like us, appropriating our holidays and our attire for their amusement, they think we died off or never existed, and, before the Statute of Secrecy, they hunted us. Hunted us like animals. The Dark Lord looks to shift the balance of power back the way it should tip, in our favor."

"But why did Nar… Auntie… get so upset earlier?"

"Auntie…" Bellatrix bit her lower lip. She reached for the ribbon, tied off the end of the braid, and guided Hermione to turn until they were facing each other, so close their chests were almost touching.

"You know – everyone knows – that I tortured the Longbottoms after the Dark Lord fell. But few know what Frank Longbottom, together with James Potter and cousin Sirius, did to my sister. They captured her and tortured her for information, just as I later did Frank, while the others handled Alice. But _I_ used the Cruciatus. What they did was much, much worse."

"Worse?" whispered Hermione.

"Think about it," said Bellatrix.

"I don't understand," said Hermione, though she did.

"They took turns," said Bellatrix.

"No!" Horrified, Hermione shook her head. Surely her mother couldn't be saying… "But Sirius is your _cousin."_

Bellatrix scoffed at this. "Sirius is an animal. The members of the Order of the Phoenix, so many of them are animals. They think what they've done is justified, that it's for their 'greater good,' but they're no better than the Muggles who hunted us hundreds of years ago. They seek to keep our masters in power so they can pretend we live in harmony with our subjugators… and they've committed as much evil in the name of their cause as anyone can claim the Dark Lord and I have in the name of ours. I've tortured, Hermione. I will not lie to you. I've used the Cruciatus, I've even killed. But I would never... and the Dark Lord would never... and Rodolphus? Had he done to you... what he intended to... the Dark Lord would have made him pay for it."

"How could Sirius do that to Narcissa?" asked Hermione, feeling sickened. "And Harry's dad? And Neville's?"

Bellatrix leaned forward and kissed Hermione's forehead.

"It's time you learn the truth, Hermione. _This_ is the side of the light. _Ours_ is the right path. _We_ are the good, and _they_ are the evil. Us versus them. Be glad you're with us now, love. We'll protect you."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Eve, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Dinner was over. The Dark Lord hadn't joined them, much to Hermione's relief, but Cygnus Black had, to the surprise of everyone except Draco (who brought him).

The meal was delicious and the company was relatively quiet. They were each lost in their own thoughts, Hermione reckoned. Draco kept shooting looks at Bellatrix, who eventually kicked him under the table, while Narcissa, who had clearly been drinking all day, was having difficulty holding her head up; she leaned her chin on her palm, her elbow on the table, and barely picked at her food.

"Have a cigarette, Cissy." Bellatrix slid a pack across the table to her sister. It was time for puddings; they were awaiting the return of the house-elves. "It will calm your nerves."

"You smoke?" asked Hermione. Her mother never smelled of cigarettes, unlike Sirius Black, Bill Weasley, and Mundungus Fletcher, so this surprised her.

"No. They're an early Christmas gift for my darling sister. She gave up smoking a few years ago, but I think it would be a better vice than the one she's overindulged in as of late."

"My head is throbbing," lamented Narcissa. "That sobering potion is sub-par at best."

"Perhaps you should have asked me to brew it, rather than ordering from that dingy apothecary in Knockturn Alley," said a familiar voice from the doorway.

"Professor Snape!" Hermione nearly ran to greet him, but then, remembering her place – and knowing it would look odd for all present to see her so excited to be in the presence of her ornery, loathsome tutor – she plopped back in her chair.

"I do not recall inviting you, Snape," said Bellatrix rudely.

"Nor I," said Draco haughtily. "You are not welcome here."

"I invited him." Narcissa gestured toward the chair across from her, the one to Hermione's left. She lifted a shaking cigarette to her lips. He stalked over to the seat, leaned across the table, and lit the end with his wand. She breathed deeply, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He sat.

"I had to put in an appearance at Order headquarters today, Dumbledore's request." He grabbed Hermione's wine goblet, which she had only once sipped from (just enough to discover she did not fancy the taste). Without asking permission, he took a long drink. "I intended to arrive here much sooner, but the Dark Lord had unexpected need for me earlier."

"Someone needing you?" Bellatrix asked with an air of faux innocence, glancing at him over the top of her own goblet. "Yes, that must have been unexpected."

"I thought I could work with the girl tonight." He spoke to Bellatrix across Hermione, who was seated between them, as if she wasn't there at all. "As tomorrow is my regularly scheduled session, but I am unable to be here as it is also the night of both the students' Christmas dinner and the annual staff party."

"I miss Christmas parties," mumbled Narcissa, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Cygnus reached for the cigarette pack in front of her. She slapped his hand. "I miss Christmas. I miss when Draco was small. I miss my baby. I miss my mother. I miss Lucius. I miss…"

"Oh, fuck me, you miss the way things were, we all know, Cissy." Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "Where are the bloody elves with that pudding?"

The rest of the meal was even more awkward and uncomfortable than the first two thirds had been. Bellatrix and Severus sniped at each other a few more times, Draco mumbled two and three word answers to basic questions about school and Quidditch, Narcissa cried twice more, Cygnus tried to eat his sticky toffee pudding with his hands, and Hermione felt a very confusing jolt of excitement when Snape's leg accidentally brushed against hers under the table.

Bellatrix accompanied them downstairs for the tutoring session, but once the cell was locked, she hurried back up to tuck her sister into bed while Draco returned Grandfather home.

"Professor?" Hermione reached for her Arithmancy textbook on the newly reordered shelf, where it was now nestled between Ancient Runes and Astronomy. "This afternoon, my mother said something about Frank Longbottom and James Potter and Sirius Black torturing her sister for information during the first war. Do you know…"

She knew it was all true before she'd finished her sentence, for she'd turned around from the bookcase and caught his expression. He'd blanched and breathed in sharply, and his eyes had flashed with something akin to deep sympathy before hardening again, and one of his fists clenched around his wand.

"I don't understand, sir," she said softly, sinking into her new chair at the desk. "James was Harry's father. He was married to Harry's mother. He loved her. And Mr. Longbottom-"

"Contrary to the belief of Gryffindors and dunderheads like your friend Harry Potter, Miss Granger, people are not black and white; we all exist in shades of gray, and a person who appears to do naught but good can be doing it for the wrong reasons, just as one with altruistic goals can cause harm, but more common is that those who do some degree of good are also capable of committing unspeakable evil, and the difference is not only in whether they get caught, but whether the court of public opinion believes that the ends justify the means."

"That's what she said, more or less. Bellatrix, I mean. Mother. She said if a Ministry official, Auror, or Order member tortures a Death Eater for information, for example, it is excusable, even _good_ , because it is done with the intention of taking down an evil greater than the act of torture itself…" She caught his sharp expression and quickly self-corrected. " _Arguably_ more evil, I mean. _I'm_ not calling him evil… But when a Death Eater commits an act of torture, even if she, too, is simply seeking information to further a cause she believes in, she is vilified for it, as it is inexcusable to torture in defense of a leader deemed wicked."

"As much as I am loath to concur with Bellatrix, that is, indeed, a fair summation. Consider, also, that history is written by the victors. The victors of the first war were those in the Order, and many members of the Ministry and Wizengamot, all of those who supported Dumbledore and the status quo over the Dark Lord and his 'wizards above all' mentality. Heinous crimes were committed on both sides, but you hear about the heroism of the winner and the dirty tactics of those who lost, as that is the way to sway public opinion. Torturing Narcissa led to the arrests of Dolohov and Rookwood. All the public needed to know was that two soulless murderers had been captured thanks to the tip of an informant. To confess they'd in fact been reprehended thanks to the desperate words of a terrified woman hoping only to save herself and her unborn…"

"She was _pregnant_?" Hermione pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to process all she was hearing. "Perhaps I assumed wrong, then. When I spoke with… with my mother… I assumed the three of them had… Mother said they 'took turns' with her."

"They did indeed." Severus' eyes narrowed. "Yes, even Black, even though she's his own blood. I don't think she slept through the night again until he was in Azkaban, weeks after Bellatrix took care of Longbottom, and a month after the death of Potter. Which brings us to your gift."

"My… what?" She lowered her hands, sickened, heartbroken, and thoroughly confused. Spots danced before her eyes – she'd been pressing too hard against the sockets – as she watched Professor Snape remove something small and rectangular from his pocket. He tapped it with his wand, retransfiguring it to regular size.

"The prince of Denmark considers his kingdom a prison, and tells his friends, 'for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' This line reminds me of your conversation with your mother. As even Dumbledore would no doubt tell you, we must each decide for ourselves what is good and what is evil, what harms our souls and what feeds our souls, what is justified… and what is unforgivable. Do the ends justify the means? Is the salvation of many worth the sacrifice of one? _Is there_ a 'greater good'? This is a tale of revenge and indecision, of murder, and suicide, and choices." He held the book out toward her. She took it eagerly, like a starving child grasping hold of a loaf of bread.

"Hamlet. Thank you, sir. I've never read it."

He smiled slightly. A satisfied smile.

"I thought you could use a bit of reading material that neither fills your mind with necessary academic information…" He tapped the cover of the Arithmancy text. "Or ridiculous fluff." He picked up a histrionic historical romance novel Bellatrix had left on the bedside table a few mornings before and tossed it onto the bed. The cover featured a shirtless well-built tattooed wizard with his arms around a shiny-haired Asian witch in a tight corset, standing on the plank of a pirate ship.

'That's not mine," she said quickly, going pink.

He chortled.

"Fill your impressive mind only with what matters, Miss Granger. You, like Hamlet, will soon need to decide who you are, and where you stand, and what you intend to do about your current position. At the risk of spoiling the play's classic plot, let me say it would be quite the pity to see you go mad at he does, to watch you wade into water weighed down by stones as Ophelia is driven to do. You were saved from drowning once, were you not? Let's ensure you not need the same saving again."

"You speak in riddles, Professor," she whispered, hugging the book to her chest. "Do you do that to drive me mad?"

His smile grew. "Quite the opposite, Miss Granger. Now, open your textbook to page four-eighty-six, and we shall begin tonight's lesson."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Day, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Christmas morning, Hermione awoke much as she had on her birthday – to the feeling the was being watched.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" said Bellatrix as soon as Hermione had opened her eyes. There were presents all over the desk. Bellatrix perched on the corner, already dressed for the day and fully made up. She tapped a large package, wrapped in white. "The Dark Lord gave you something special. Open his first."

"Good morning." Hermione, still groggy, reached for the white package. It was heavy. Not her wand. But she should have known better to even hope for the wand. With a shaky smile, she began peeling back the paper.

"You should open it faster," said Bellatrix. "We used an oxygen charm, but didn't poke holes in the top."

"You… what?" Hermione, slightly terrified but even more curious, quickly pulled the top off the box and tossed it aside.

And out jumped a very ornery, very orange, very familiar squashed face half-kneazle, half-cat.

"Crookshanks!"

"You mentioned him at dinner, the last time we ate with the Dark Lord. You talked about him at great length, as a matter of fact, and he remembered."

"Oh, Crookshanks!" Hermione's eyes filled with tears. The cat gave her a dirty look, presumably unhappy about having been apart so long and in a box without a means for escape, but he allowed himself to be gathered in her arms and kissed and cuddled, and after a few moments he began to purr. Clearly, all was forgiven. "Oh, my dear sweet Crookshanks, I thought I'd never see you again!"

"The Dark Lord does not particularly like cats." Bellatrix scratched Crookshanks behind the ear. "But he could see how very much you missed this particular furball, so on Christmas Eve day, Draco helped me gain access to Hogwarts while Snape and Dumbledore were out, and we liberated the little beast from the Gryffindor Common Room. On the Dark Lord's orders, of course." Bellatrix looked hopefully at her daughter, whose tears were dripping steadily onto the top of the feline's head. "You see how he cares about you, Hermione? How concerned he is for your happiness? Neither of us know quite what to do with you, it's not easy to start your life as a parent mere months before your child reaches adulthood, but he made this happen for you, because you wanted it. Didn't you want it? Don't you?"

Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that she was being manipulated, that the Dark Lord had returned her cat to her more to gain her affections and loyalties than out of any genuine desire to make her happy, but at the moment, she didn't care.

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mother, and thank the Dark Lord," she said. She kissed her cat's fluffy face.

Bellatrix beamed.

Hermione's other gifts included three new blouses and three new skirts from Aunt Narcissa, Sleekeazy Hair Potion and a large makeup kit from Draco (clearly not chosen by him personally), a basket of assorted chocolates from Honeydukes from Grandfather (also clearly not chosen by him personally) and, from her mother, a brass skeleton key on a thin chain.

"What's this?" asked Hermione, holding it up to the light.

"You may use it to leave this room between the hours of eleven and two, every day, during which you will have access to the ground floor of Malfoy Manor, including the kitchen, dining room, atrium, drawing room, and pool."

"There's a pool?"

"Oh…" Bellatrix's grin widened. "And the library."

"THERE'S A LIBRARY?!"

Hermione leapt out of bed as if she needed to see it for herself, but Bellatrix, chuckling, caught her wrist.

"Between eleven and two, starting tomorrow. You must wear the key on a chain around your neck at all times when out of your cell… cell…ar. The cellar. Your room in the cellar."

"I'll wear it even in the pool?"

"Yes."

Hermione didn't argue. She wasn't going to be going swimming for a while anyway, she figured. Not so long as there was a _library_.

"In the event of an emergency, a raid, or any sort of danger, the key will go hot, and within three seconds you will be apparated back into your room. Close your eyes and let it take you, like a portkey, or you may be splinched."

Hermione winced. "Alright."

"At the end of three hours, if you have not returned to your room, it will burn for three seconds and apparate you. If you attempt to leave Malfoy Manor, even to explore the grounds, it will burn and apparate you. If you attempt to take stairs to go anywhere but back down here, it will burn and apparate you."

"What happens if I…" She fingered the key. "If the chain breaks?"

Bellatrix was not smiling now. "The chain will not break. It is indestructible. But if you attempt to remove it outside this room, what you will feel is pain unlike any you've known before. And I don't want that to happen to you." Her smile returned. "Which it won't, because you won't remove the key or the chain whilst outside of this room. I know you won't, Hermione, love, because I trust you. Don't you want Mummy to trust you?"

"You can trust me, Mummy," Hermione said obediently, forgetting that she'd committed to calling the woman 'Mother.' Crookshanks rubbed against her ankle. She bent down to pick him up.

"Are you happy?" asked Bellatrix anxiously.

"Yes, Mother, thank you," she said genuinely. Freedom, a pool, a _library_ , and her beloved cat. Despite this marking her 130th day in captivity, it was a wonderful way to start her Christmas.

Bellatrix seemed to think so, too. She embraced both Hermione and the cat, holding them to her, close enough that Hermione could smell her rosewater perfume, close enough to hear her heart beat.

Hermione closed her eyes. She might have been deluding herself, but she couldn't help feeling like somewhere back in the deepest recesses of her mind, in her longest-buried memories, she'd smelled roses and heard that heartbeat before.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Night, 1996**

 **(the present)**

For Christmas supper, the Dark Lord joined them, and conversation was considerably livelier than it had been the night before.

For one, Narcissa, though she was drinking wine with her meal, appeared to be sober, which even Hermione thought was a nice change.

For another, the Dark Lord himself was seemingly in a jovial mood, though he'd only say that something he'd longed worked for had gone his way, giving him "high hopes" for the new year.

Bellatrix was chatty and animated and made them all laugh, in particular with her impressions of Severus Snape. As an odd reversal, she'd been drinking much of the day, but while alcohol made her sister melancholy and pessimistic, it made Bellatrix uninhibited and charming. If Hermione hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she never would have believed that this was the behavior of the demented sadist who tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity some fifteen years ago… though having learned what Frank did, Hermione no longer felt any sympathy toward him in particular.

"Life at Hogwarts, Draco..." said the Dark Lord, his cold voice hissing on the S. "How is it as of late? I heard you got into a spot of... trouble... a few days ago."

Draco looked from his aunt to his mother, as if challenging either of them to admit they'd been the one to sell him out to the Dark Lord. When neither spoke, he explained.

"Potter's been following me around all term like my bloody shadow. The night before we left on holiday, he cornered me in the hall outside the Come and Go room and threatened to use the Cruciatus on me if I didn't tell him where to find _her."_ He jerked his head toward Hermione. "I told him I'd bet my left bol..." He glanced up and caught his mother's eye. "I told him I didn't think he was capable of performing an Unforgivable that did anything more than tickle, but that my aunt had a laugh about his attempts. Then he insulted my father."

"You dueled with your fists, according to Professor Snape," said the Dark Lord. Nagini hissed accusatorially, her head just above the table, her gaze fixated on Draco. The Dark Lord stroked her head. "Are you not a wizard, Draco?"

"I am ashamed to say he punched me and I punched back." Draco tried to look sufficiently chastened, but Hermione got the distinct impression he was pleased to have had a fist fight with Harry. She wondered if this meant he'd won, though if she'd had to wager her left _anything_ on the match, she'd go all in for Harry.

"You will handle yourself better in the future."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Did they have a dueling club when you were at Hogwarts, sir?" Hermione asked. The question surprised her as much as it did everyone else at the table. She wasn't sure what made her ask, but now that she had, she eagerly awaited his answer.

"We did," he said, smiling. "And yes, I was a member. As prefect and Head Boy, I thought it my duty to set a good example - and a high bar - for the younger Slytherins. We were undefeated my sixth and seventh years."

The conversation shifted then, becoming lighter again, until Hermione could almost forget she was surrounded by Slytherins, Death Eaters and Death Eater supporters, those who sought to see Dumbledore defeated. She smiled and sipped her gillywater, and genuinely enjoyed listening to Narcissa describe her disastrous first time on a broom, which ended with two broken wrists (her own) and a broken nose (Madam Hooch's).

"You know," said Bellatrix, midway through her fourth Firewhisky. "You were conceived on Christmas day, Hermione. 1978. It was an _excellent_ year for me."

"She doesn't need to know that! And neither do the rest of us, especially not at my dining room table. Have at least some modicum of class." scolded Narcissa, a rich admonishment coming from a woman who'd just last night, while intoxicated, dropped her cigarette into her pudding because she tried to sip her wine without first taking the cigarette out of her mouth. "Have you no sense of decorum, Bella?"

"You were conceived on Christmas day?" Draco smirked. "How romantic."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, despite knowing how juvenile it was to do so. He returned the gesture. His mother swatted at him, but Bellatrix beamed.

"Happy Christmas," Draco sniggered. "And, in nine months, happy birthday!"

"At least _she_ was conceived in a bedroom and not on the Muggle underground." Bellatrix sat back, arms folded, and smiled smugly as, across from her, Narcissa's face change color to match that of the wine in her glass.

 _"_ _You were conceived on the Muggle underground?"_ Hermione positively cackled at this. Draco, who now looked as green as his mother did red, closed his eyes as if to block out the mental image.

 _"Bella!"_ snapped Narcissa.

 _"Cissy!"_ mocked Bellatrix.

"Children, children, let's play nice," said the Dark Lord, gesturing for them to quiet. Whether he was referring to Hermione and Draco or Narcissa and Bellatrix, though, Hermione was uncertain. "As a gift, I would like to see both young Mr. Malfoy and young Miss Black after puddings, alone, in the drawing room."

"As a gift, my Lord?" Narcissa voice quivered, as all the good humor was suddenly sucked from the room like happiness in the presence of a Dementor.

"Occlumency. Bella, you've been teaching the boy Occlumency."

"Yes, my Lord. He had a lesson today, and one yesterday, and many over the summer."

"And the girl?"

"No." Bellatrix glanced anxiously at Hermione. "None. Not yet."

"They can practice on each other." The Dark Lord reached for his wine goblet, downed the last sip, and stood. "After your puddings, escort them to me, Bella. I'll… supervise."

"Yes, my Lord," said Bellatrix.

Aunt Narcissa, saying nothing, scratched above the scoop neck of her dress, leaving faint red lines across the red skin.

Hermione had seen her mother do the same. It was obviously a nervous tic. She wondered whether Andromeda, too, had inherited it. Hermione, seemingly, had not.

"Thank you, my Lord," said Draco softly, but Hermione didn't need Legilimency to know he was far more worried than grateful. She was too, for more reason than one.

"Leading up to and during the first war, the Dark Lord trained a number of us in various aspects of magic Hogwarts and the Ministry don't want us to learn. They hold us back by denying us study in the Dark Arts, limiting our youth to defensive spells, and not allowing apprenticeships in the ways of the old magics." Bellatrix looked upon the Dark Lord with the same expression with which the witch on the romance cover looked at her handsome bare-chested wizard. "He only taught those he deemed valuable enough to learn. You should be honored, children."

Hermione tried to smile. Across from her, Draco was doing the same.

The Dark Lord nodded at them, turned, and exited the room. Nagini was fast on his heels; he let the door slam shut behind him. This was not unusual. He frequently skipped dessert. Come to think of it, he rarely ate much at all. Perhaps one needs limited sustenance when one has been nearly killed multiple times in various forms and resurrected in a graveyard by a rodent-like servant with a cauldron.

"You should be honored, children," Bellatrix repeated emphatically. "I was nearly twenty before he agreed to start teaching me."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Night, 1996**

 **(the present)**

 _She needed to be punished._

 _She was speaking out of turn in class again, waving her hand wildly in the air, shouting out answers, being the insufferable know-it-all she was bred to be._

 _And he was damned sick of it._

 _So he assigned detention for well after curfew, and sat at his desk awaiting her arrival, trying not to remember the way the buttons of her blouse pulled, as her chest had clearly grown since she'd last purchased a uniform, trying not to remember the shortness of her skirt and lack of stockings, trying not to remember that she smelled of antique books and rosewater perfume…_

 _"_ _You assigned me detention, Professor?"_

 _Her skirt was somehow shorter than it had been that afternoon, her blouse tighter, her smell more intoxicating._

 _"_ _To my desk, Miss Granger."_

 _He was going to assign her lines, have her write on the board until her arm was sore and her hand was ready to fall off, but when she reached him…_

 _"_ _Turn around."_

 _She obeyed, facing the desk, hiking her skirt up just a bit more as she did so._

 _"You have been naughty," he said. "A naughty girl."_

 _"_ _Punish me, Professor," she whispered, wiggling her arse practically in his face. "Tell me again I was a naughty girl."_

 _He stood, flipped up that skirt, and curled his lips into a smile._

 _"_ _Forget your knickers back in the dorm, did you?"_

 _He brought back his hand and swung it forward, connecting with the smooth, bouncy curve of her backside. She twerked forward and moaned, then stuck her arse out again, presenting it to him. He examined the pink handprint he'd left, and, deciding he could do better, brought his palm up again._

 _Another slap. Her cheek jiggled, redder now. It had to sting. It had to sting, but she did not tell him to stop. On the contrary, she was begging for more, and the smell of books and rosewater was being overpowered by that of arousal… He felt his trousers tenting… He was going to take her right here, from behind, bent over his desk. He was going to…_

"Severus?"

A woman's voice.

"Severus?"

Someone shaking him.

"Severus, wake up."

He opened his eyes to see Minerva McGonagall standing over him, looking concerned. He was seated at his desk, slumped over, with a forearm damp from drool. All of the elements from his dream were gone, save for the classroom around him… and the painful tenting of his trousers.

"Nightmare?"

"Er…"

"You were mumbling in your sleep. Sounded disturbed. I could hear you groaning from the hall." She wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her body. He wondered how late it was. "I've been called to the hospital wing. It seems Parvati Patil has been seeing one of yours – Blaise Zabini. Slughorn caught them in the Astronomy tower. She slipped while hurrying back down the stairs and split open the back of her head." Minerva shook her head, tsking. "Teenagers and their hormones. I don't know how they manage to study with their minds firmly planted in the gutter at all times. Glad to be past that phase of life, eh?"

"Yes," said Severus, shifting uncomfortably, unable to shake the fact that he'd just been interrupted in the midst of a gutter-worthy dream himself, about a hormonal teenager, no less. (He was glad Minerva, while a brilliant and capable witch, had absolutely no mastery of Legilimency.)

"Get yourself to bed." She smiled, but it was the sad sort of smile he'd gotten used to see from her this year. Cedric's death had been hard enough on the Hogwarts deputy headmistress and losing Hermione a year later was almost too much to bare. "Happy Christmas, Severus."

"Yes." He did not dare rise to walk her to the door, considering. He made like he was looking for something important in his desk, and nodded. "I'll be off to bed momentarily. Happy Christmas, Minerva."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Day, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Azkaban. Returned to Azkaban. After less than six months of freedom, he'd been captured and detained. Again.

Returned to his original cell. The broken wall had been repaired, and security was at what might be an all-time high. Aurors. Dementors. Ministry officials. Suspected members of the Order.

"Look alive there, eh?"

The sharp smack of a cane against the bars made Rodolphus flinch, pulling him from his furious daydream, in which he saw himself getting revenge on every damn one of those bloody kids who'd gone to the Ministry with Potter.

"Fuck off, Mad-Eye. What're you doing here?"

"Checking on things," said the ex-Auror. "Constant vigilance, boy. Can't let you lot get out again."

It took all Rodolphus had not to rush the bars with the hope of strangling that man, but knowing it was not only futile but would lead to punishment in the form of withheld food, he stared at the opposite wall and did nothing.

"Happy Christmas," said Moody gruffly. Rodolphus grunted. With a chuckle, the crazy former Auror continued down the cellblock, stopping a few spaces down to rattle Dolohov.

It was that bitch's fault he was trapped back here. She should have left him alone to fuck the girl. He would have been quick – after fifteen years of forced celibacy, he couldn't imagine lasting more than a minute or two, tops – and then he could have gotten to the Atrium and escaped, same as she did.

But no. She'd cursed him – bloody _cursed_ him with that whip-like hex of her own invention – and then left him there, trapped, unable to complete the puzzle before Aurors discovered him.

They weren't permitted to use magic against each other, that much was in their marriage contract, but then the Dark Lord had intervened, and now the stipulation only went one way.

That whore.

Rodolphus growled and paced the small cell. He was shackled by his wrists to his ankles, but he could shuffle back and forth, diagonally, which he did for hours at a time. Anything to keep from going mad. Not that he wasn't mad already.

By the time of his first arrest, Bella's second, he'd gotten over the dissolution of their union. She was still legally his, but they hadn't shared a bed in some time, and she was never going to give him the son he wanted. He'd accepted this. He'd accepted that he'd lost his wife to the greater good – the greater good being the Dark Lord – and, quite frankly, he relished in fucking other women, as many as he could manage, whether they wanted him (many did) or not (just as many did not). By the time they were caught, having overstayed their welcome at the Longbottoms' house, he would have described their platonic relationship as a solid one; they understood each other, complimented each other, even. Worked together well.

But it had been different since their release. Since she'd gone 'home' to Malfoy Manor and straight to bed with the Dark Lord, while he'd been on the run, in exile with his fugitive brother, both foraging and fighting to stay alive. Why weren't the Lestrange brothers as rewarded as she was? They'd been just as faithful. Why didn't they warrant a warm bed, and maybe someone to share it with?

And then, in the Ministry, he'd reckoned he was going to be killed – both the Order and the Dark Lord would want him dead, as at least one of their side was dead and the Prophecy had been destroyed – and he'd wanted just one more… just one more woman, just one more warm cunt in which to bury himself, just one more quick hard shag… just one more struggling, sobbing virgin…

And she'd ruined it.

His "wife."

She'd taken the girl, escaped with the girl, escaped with her life and her freedom and the sweet virgin pussy that was supposed to be his last, and he hadn't even been killed. No. He'd been returned to his same old cell overlooking the vast expanse of water, surrounded by the darkness of Dementors and the taunting of guards and Aurors.

He'd tried to take Bellatrix against her will once. He'd ended up with bruised bollocks and a bruised ego, threatened by the Dark Lord, never again permitted to touch her.

But he'd have that girl.

As soon as he got out, he'd find her, and have her.

He couldn't use magic to punish Bella, and he couldn't use brute force on her either, but if the girl was really her daughter…

He knew precisely how he'd make them both pay.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Cut:** Sorry, the promised flashbacks to Christmas 1975 were cut and repurposed to fit in the next chapter.

 **Chapter Ten:** New Year's Resolutions, Bella's ultimatum, and Hermione & Draco's lesson with the Dark Lord.

 **Chapter Eleven:** Hermione pushes Bellatrix too far and suffers for it. Will Snape intervene in time to save her?

 **Also Coming Up:** Review Responses – I'm sorry for not posting them with this one, but it's so long already! I will try to PM those of you I know prefer PMs in the interim. Thanks! (Out of curiosity, does anyone have a preference about the upcoming chapter teasers? Keep? Lose? Don't care?)

 **Trigger Warning:** aside from past/future referencing what happened to Narcissa and the like, Hermione does not get raped (or killed) in this fic. Just want to be clear because I have gotten upset PMs & reviews about that particular subject matter in the past, and I had two worried readers ask if she's going to die, so if those things are triggers for anyone be aware. That said, this IS an M-rated fic, and may include violence, sexual assault, references to child abuse, strong language, adult content, etc. This will be the ONLY in-chapter TW – and be forewarned that the fic only gets darker from here.

 **Quick Side Note:** Remember that this fic is subtitled "The Corruption of Hermione Granger." I have gotten some Qs about whether she'll 'go dark' or how dark she'll go and won't give spoilers, but I do want people to keep in mind the premise, and also point out that not everything you (or Hermione) is seeing might be true. We are getting a lot of the world from Hermione's perspective, and she's only seeing what Bellatrix, Narcissa, Snape and the Dark Lord allow her to see. Hope that helps answer some of your Qs! :)

 **Thank you!**

 **-AL**


	11. A NEW YEAR

**CHAPTER TEN:**

 **A NEW YEAR**

 **New Year's Eve Morning, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Who's my brilliant kitty? _Crookshanks_ is my brilliant kitty! Who's a smart boy? Who? _Who is it?_ It's you! And so handsome! Who's so handsome? _Crookshanks_ is so handsome!"

"You sound like me talking to Draco when he was a baby."

Hermione jumped. She had been so engrossed in playtime with her grumpy fluffball, she hadn't heard her aunt come down the stairs.

Narcissa, wearing a simple gray dress and low-heeled boots, looked tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, not at all her usual style. In her hands was a tray on which both Hermione's breakfast and the cat's bowl of fish and chicken were placed. Crookshanks apparently hadn't heard her either, but now that her presence was known, he shot her a disapproving look, flipped from his back to his feet, and hopped off the bed, his fur all puffed out.

His subsequent _"Mrowwww"_ clearly meant, "My breakfast is late."

"One of the house-elves died last night," said Narcissa, even though Hermione hadn't asked any questions. "I fixed this myself. I apologize for the toast. It's burnt. I tried twice, then gave up."

"That's… alright. How did the house-elf…?"

"Old age, but now the whole lot of them are in mourning, crying and carrying on." She rolled her eyes. "They'll have a little ceremony for it later and be back to normal tomorrow. I'd punish them for neglecting their duties in the interim, but honestly, who has the energy? Let them have their day."

Hermione felt a surge of fury over this injustice.

"Have their day? Back to normal tomorrow? Expected to mourn only briefly and get on with work? Punishment for taking time to grieve?" Her hair fluffed out when she got angry; she greatly resembled the cat. "And why call the house-elf an 'it'? Surely it had a name! Was it male or female? Did it have a family?"

"Draco said you wouldn't take the news well." Narcissa tapped the lock with her elbow, using both wandless and nonverbal magic to unlock the door. She stepped inside, placed the tray on the desk, and used her wand to lock the door again before settling in Severus' usual seat. "He said you're fond of house-elves. You believe they're people… or something to that effect?"

"I believe they are living, breathing, sentient creatures with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and pain and autonomy and they deserve the same rights and freedoms as-"

"That's nice, dear." Narcissa propped her head up on her hand as she had during dinner Christmas Eve. She sounded exhausted and drained and melancholy, and Hermione knew it meant she'd been drinking – probably up half the night with a bottle – and was still feeling the effects.

"Alright, Auntie?" she asked. Narcissa sighed.

"Has my sister spoken with you about Draco's task?"

"Task?"

"I'm forbidden to give specifics. But has she…?"

"She hasn't mentioned him at all, really."

Narcissa sighed again, more dramatically this time. She placed the little bowl with Crookshanks' food on the floor by the desk, and he immediately took to it, purring. "Tuck in, girl. The eggs will taste worse once it gets cold."

"Do you cook often?"

Narcissa shook her head. "Of course not. But, when I was a girl, before Hogwarts, my sisters and I were taught to bake, so I have a grasp on the basics. Mother thought it important. 'Even when you have others to serve you, a well-made cake, pie, biscuit, or tart is an excellent way to endear yourself to your future husband.' Everything we did in those days was with the intention of endearing ourselves to our future husbands."

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and speared a bite of egg. The toast was indeed burnt, but the rest of the meal (eggs, beans, sausage) looked alright.

"Mother says she never loved her husband. Do you love yours?"

"That's a personal question." Narcissa reached over and took one of the toast triangles off her niece's plate, ripped off part of the crust, and began to nibble.

"I'm sorry."

"I was highly fortunate." Narcissa helped herself to tea. She'd brought down two mugs. "My parents arranged a good match."

"So your marriage was arranged, too. Are they always, with pureblood families?"

"Not always, and not anymore." She smiled, though the sadness lingered in her eyes. "I was three and a half when Lucius and I met. He was two. I am told I spend th entire afternoon bossing him about. After my family returned home from Malfoy Manor, Mother said, 'That's the boy you'll marry someday,' and I said, 'But he wears _nappies_!' I'd been out of them for nearly a year and I suppose I thought that made me quite grown by comparison."

"I assume he was out of them by the time you got married." Hermione cut into her sausage.

Narcissa laughed, a real laugh, perhaps the first truly genuine one Hermione had heard from her.

"Yes, thank Merlin, he was toilet trained by age nineteen. He could buckle his own boots and brush his own teeth by then, too, though when he wears Muggle ties, I have to tie them. But I like to think he continues to look to me for direction, as he did then. On our second 'date,' which happened to be my fourth birthday, I taught him a lovely game called 'brush Cissy's hair,' and he's still up for it whenever I ask."

Hermione giggled. She didn't like Lucius Malfoy, not a bit, but she could picture him as a tiny toddler, still in nappies, being ordered around by his much more grown up future wife, and the picture it made in her mind was an adorable one.

"But you _do_ love him."

"Very much." The smile disappeared, her eyes went watery. "I love Lucius more than I love anyone else in the world, save for Draco. More than I do my father or sister."

"And he loves you?"

"So I'm told." Her head, again resting on her hand, began to droop.

"Why do you drink so much?"

Narcissa's icy blue eyes met Hermione's warm brown ones. "My husband is in Azkaban. My son may be marked for death. There's a madman living in my…" She immediately broke off. "I respect the Dark Lord, Hermione, but I fear him – as you should, too. I am afraid all the time. Afraid for my husband, for my son… for myself. The first war was…" She shivered. "Terrible things happened then, to people who didn't deserve. I still have nightmares."

She averted her eyes, and Hermione felt a surge of sympathy and protectiveness. Had anyone told her back in April she'd spend New Year's Eve in the presence of Narcissa Malfoy and want nothing more than to hug and comfort her, she'd have thought them mad. But now…

"Why did they do it?" she whispered. "Potter, Longbottom, and..." She couldn't bring herself to name Sirius.

Narcissa shook her head. A tear escaped down her cheek. "It was a long time ago."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said softly. "I'm so very sorry."

"You're reading Hamlet?" Narcissa rose, went to the bookshelf, and plucked it off the top. "It's a play about revenge, you know. Revenge… revenge makes otherwise good people do terrible things." She turned around, hugging the book to her chest. She faced Hermione, but still did not look at her. "They didn't come here looking for me that afternoon. They wanted Bella. They wanted to punish her for what her husband and his brother had previously done to Alice. And that had been retribution for what Alice had done to Rabastan's fiancee. On and on it goes. But when they came to the Manor, Bella wasn't here. I was."

Hermione gaped, horrified. "They did that to you to get revenge on Rodolphus? But... but... but you had nothing to do with anything he did!"

"In war, it doesn't have to make sense." Narcissa placed the book on the edge of Hermione's desk. "Your name comes from A Winter's Tale. Your parents read a lot of Shakespeare, did they?"

"They preferred to watch. They took me to many plays when I was younger."

"Lucius and I used to attend one show at the Globe each year, for our anniversary. My favorite was As You Like It. A comedy. Much less…" She tapped her fingers on the side of her mug. "Quite unlike Hamlet. Severus came with us several times, with his gir…" She again cut herself off. "It doesn't matter. She's gone now, Lucius is in prison, I am a prisoner in my own home, and you…"

"I've been living in this cellar since May."

"Draco's never been interested in theatre or literature, nor has Bella." Catching sight of the romance novel on Hermione's bedside table, she let out a disapproving 'hmn.' "Not _decent_ literature, at any rate. All mysteries and romance for her. Shakespeare has mystery and romance, too, but…"

"I can't read _that_ without blushing," Hermione confessed, touching the cover of the erotic pirate novel.

"I would have given Lucius half a dozen children, but after Draco, I couldn't have any more." Narcissa half-smiled at her. "I can't tell you how much it means to Bella to have found you. You cannot imagine the pain of losing a child. I know you hate being locked down here, but it's as much for your own safety as it is to keep you from escaping. She would have died to save you, that night she brought you back here. The Dark Lord recognizes how dangerous this is, to have such a faithful follower more dedicated to her child than to him. That's why Bella is so desperate to turn you into her perfect daughter, one the Dark Lord would be pleased with, proud of, confident about having around, so he won't be threatened by your presence. Some seven months ago, her primary goal was to help the Dark Lord defeat Potter. Now, that's secondary to keeping _you_ alive and well."

"How could she love me so much?" Hermione felt a pang of guilt, for while she was growing steadily fonder of the woman – Mother – she honestly couldn't say she loved her, and certainly not as a daughter would typically love her mum.

"As I said, there's nothing worse than the pain of losing a child. To have experienced that, and to get another chance?" Narcissa shifted in her seat, tapping her fingernails against the mug. "Let's just say, I hope child loss is a heartache you'll _never_ understand." Narcissa wiped away another errant tear with her palm. "At five-past eleven, meet me in the library. I'll find the play for you, if you're interested."

"I am."

"I have to tend to the house-elves, now. They requested a tiny coffin and a place for burial. Usually this would fall to Lucius, but…" As she so often did, Narcissa let the end of the sentence hang in the air. "Please bring up your breakfast dishes at eleven. They'll not be disappeared to the kitchen today."

Hermione promised she would. After her aunt left the cell, she picked at her food and pet Crookshanks, lost in thought, and more confused about her loyalties than ever.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Eve Morning, 1976**

 **(twenty years ago)**

Six weeks ago, her husband hurt her, left her crying and bruised, and he - the Dark Lord - held her through the night even though he swore he wouldn't.

He hadn't seen her since.

He hadn't seen her since because he'd made a terrible mistake that night – or, more accurately, the next morning.

But now it was his birthday, and… damned as it meant he was… he wanted to spend it with her.

"This is precisely why you've kept women away," he muttered, stepping into the shower. "It is potentially dangerous, letting them get attached."

(Letting _himself_ get attached.)

He'd spoken with Rodolphus since, seen him four times in fact. Thrice on official business. Once to make clear what punishments he would face were she to be in that condition ever again.

 _"_ _What condition, my Lord?" asked Rodolphus, genuinely obtuse. "With child? She lost it."_

 _"_ _Yes, with child," he'd replied, though that hadn't been what he meant. "You'll not touch her anymore. She is too valuable to me, too talented, too important to be wasted off gestating while we're fighting a war."_

 _"_ _I'll use protection in the future."_

 _"_ _You'll not touch her anymore." His eyes narrowed. Hadn't he already said that? Was the boy deaf as well as dim? "Not sexually, and not violently."_

 _Rodolphus' eyebrows pulled together in the center of his forehead, creating a curved line in his skin, the only wrinkle on his young face. He didn't have the beginnings of crows feet yet._

 _"_ _You left red marks on her throat, bruises on her arms and thighs. You'll not touch her again. Not sexually, not physically, you'll never again harm her in any way. She tells me your marriage contract forbids you from using magic against each other…"_

 _"_ _Yes."_

 _"_ _But not brute strength."_

 _Rodolphus nervously cleared his throat. "Er… no."_

 _"_ _You'll not touch her again, understand?"_

 _"_ _Ever?" Rodolphus ran a hand through his stringy, oily black hair. He must use the same cheap shampoo as that new boy, Severus Snape. Both looked like they could use a good conditioner._

 _The Dark Lord ran a hand through his own hair. Brown. Silky. Well-coiffed. Though he felt the fade of his good looks with every newly created Horcrux, he was still an attractive man, and he wanted Rodolphus to see it – especially given the twenty years he had on the young man._

 _(He'd been vain in his youth.)_

 _"_ _I don't want her bruised; I don't want her pregnant."_

 _"_ _We'll use protect-"_

 _He raised his wand, aiming it at the younger man's heart. "You'll. Not. Touch. Her. Again." A short jab sent a shock through Rodolphus' chest, causing his heart to miss two beats, and momentarily stealing his breath._ _"If you touch her, I'll kill you._ _Understand?"_

 _Rodolphus was clutching his chest, breathing heavily. "Yes, my Lord. I'll not touch her again."_

 _"_ _Go home and apologize to her for your lack of good manners. And consider yourself lucky that I am the only one who knows what you tried to do to her. I Summoned her to me that night – I needed her for a mission she was incapable of carrying out, thanks to you."_

 _(This was almost true. He'd Summoned her because he wanted to watch her play with herself why he stroked himself to completion, which was something like a mission, and she was indeed unable to oblige.)_

 _"_ _I… I am lucky she came to you?"_

 _"_ _Imagine if she'd reported your behavior to her parents. I cannot imagine Cygnus and Druella taking too kindly to a man guilty of abusing their daughter." He chuckled darkly. "I don't believe Aurors ever found the body of that Healer-in-Training who groped a teenage Andromeda when she was in St. Mungo's, and all he did was place a hand high on her inner thigh."_

 _(Andromeda, the exiled Black sister, mother to a Metamorph - how he wished he could recruit her to their side, but alas… Bella assured him this was a lost cause.)_

 _"_ _I… thank you for not informing my father-in-law of my… indiscretion, my Lord. It was a momentary lapse in judgement, brought on by the pain of losing the child. It shall never happen again."_

 _"_ _Because…"_

 _"_ _Because I'll… not touch her again?"_

 _"_ _Very good. You may go, Lestrange."_

 _"_ _Yes, my Lord. Thank you."_

That was well over a month ago, and just hours after his own… indiscretion.

He'd woken to find her back to his chest, the same way they'd fallen asleep, and his hand was on her abdomen, and her hair smelled of that lovely fragrant shampoo the Black women always wore, the one Druella had specially made from Sunsprite roses. He didn't know what had made him do it, but he pressed his lips first to the back of her neck, then to the crux of her neck, and then to her shoulder, and back again. She'd awoken, whispered "My Lord," and turned her head, and his lips had – completely of their own accord, with no direction from his brain – connected with the line of her jaw, moving down until his and hers were nearly touching.

"I want this," she'd whispered as she shifted onto her back beneath him, and though he wouldn't speak it aloud, he wanted it just as much.

It had been decades – _decades_! – since he'd last kissed a woman. While he'd continued having sex with beautiful, eager witches for years after leaving Hogwarts, kissing was of no use to him. No purpose.

But here he was, in mid-November, gently taking the lower lip of this far-too-young (for him) woman between his own, and applying slight pressure.

She sighed against his mouth, his lips parted, and he kissed her again.

And again.

And again.

And then he was kissing her everywhere.

Her lips. Her cheeks. He kissed over her eyelids, below her ear, the hollow of her throat.

He slipped off her shirt and placed a trail of kisses down the center of her chest, right over that angry red jagged cut left by her worthless husband's severing charm. Between her breasts. Down her midsection. All the way to her lower abdomen, just above the band of her knickers, where the line stopped. He held his lips there for a long moment as he pondered the fact that only two weeks ago, there had been a baby inside her. He did not want children, he had no need for an heir… but the intense swell of jealousy over having not been the one to give her that baby bubbled up inside him. He began the ascent again, taking his time, enjoying the way she arched her back as his lips again found the space between her breasts… He took one in each hand, kissing the soft curved flesh. He placed slow closed-mouth kisses over each of her nipples, then opened-mouth ones; he got the impression she hardly dared to breath, as her chest barely moved up and down. He kissed her throat, that delectable throat, and under her chin.

And then her hand was on the back of his neck, her nails lightly digging into his skull, and his hand was entangled in that frazzled mess of rose-scented hair, and her lips came up to meet his, crushing together almost painfully. Her lips parted, he tasted her tongue for the first time, and he felt himself harden when she moaned into his mouth. _Fuck_ , he wanted her. But it could go no farther than this. This was already too far.

Hours must have passed while he was kissing her. Days, maybe. Months. Years.

When they finally parted, her lips were puffy and red – he'd kissed and licked and sucked and even lightly bitten them, and his own felt fuller as well. Both were breathing heavily, and when her heavy-lidded dark eyes met his, he nearly asked her to make love to him… he nearly asked her to stay indefinitely…

But common sense prevailed, and after a house-elf supplied breakfast in his room, the only room of this place she'd yet seen, he ordered her home.

"You are a married woman," he'd reminded her.

"I did not choose my husband," she reminded him.

"It does not matter." He'd gone to her, and grasped her bruised biceps, and kissed her forehead. "For now, return to Malfoy Manor. This afternoon, I shall Summon Rodolphus. When you go home to him is up to you – and, I suppose, your sister, as it is her home. But he'll not be hurting you again. You are too valuable to me." He stepped back, releasing her arms. "As a soldier."

"Yes, my Lord."

And then she was gone. And he was alone. And that was six weeks ago.

He tipped back his head, letting the hot water rain down upon his hair and back.

He had no need for a woman. None. Not at all.

But it might be a nice change of pace for them to spend his birthday together.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Eve Morning, 1996**

 **(the present)**

He was perusing the Prophet over breakfast, seated across from her at the small round table in one of the four rooms he'd taken over at Malfoy Manor. She was holding a page of the paper too, but not really reading. The house-elves were out of commission for the day, so she'd cooked for him. She wasn't much of a cook, but her mother had made sure all three of her daughters knew how to bake (oh, how young Bella had hated learning to bake!) so she had a general grasp of things around the kitchen.

"My eggs are too runny."

"Next time you can fry them yourself, then, my Lord."

"Such impertinence in your old age."

Her eyes narrowed. She hated being reminded of her 'old age,' and he seemed to be doing so with increasing frequency as of late. He insisted he hardly ever desired sex from her because he was "above the more banal and base desires of man, able to eschew physical pleasure in a quest for what really mattered – power," but the insecure part of her, the part that reared its ugly head every time she glanced in the mirror, wondered if he was simply disinterested in _her_. Perhaps a younger woman, a one less war-torn and weathered, one who hadn't spent more than a decade wasting away in Azkaban would be better able to entice him these days.

Alecto Carrow, perhaps, or Hilda Travers, or Primrose Parkinson…

"Phillipa Parkinson was here yesterday evening," she said casually, not looking up from the dull society page. "She brought her daughters, Primrose and Pansy. The younger one has been seeing Draco. The elder expressed interest in furthering our cause, according to Cissy."

"Good." He did not look up either. He was reading the international news section. "We could use young blood."

"But surely you haven't any interest in a girl _that_ young, my Lord." She cleared her throat. "As a soldier."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-one."

"Older than you were when you took the Mark."

Bellatrix bristled. "But I was exceptional! You said yourself, I-"

"I am trying to read, Bella." He turned the page. "Did you always talk so much?"

"You used to enjoy listening to me talk, my Lord."

He did not respond to that. He merely sipped his tea and nibbled toast and continued to read while she pouted at him across the table.

"I'm not hungry. Would you like me to bring your dishes to the kitchen?"

"Yes." He picked up the last piece of toast and pushed the plate away. "I cannot stomach runny egg whites."

Her eyes flashed again, but he did not see. She put his plate atop her own and gathered his silverware, leaving only the mug and saucer, as he always finished his tea.

"Happy to be your humble servant," she muttered.

"Hm?"

"Never mind." She started toward the door but paused, stepped close to him, and leaned down. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips (what lips he had left, anyway) and slowly straightened.

"What was that?"

"Happy birthday, my Lord."

"Ah, yes." He turned another page, still more or less ignoring her. "My birthday. Take those dishes down, now, then find Draco and tell him and the girl I'll be giving them a final Occlumency lesson this afternoon. He returns to school tomorrow."

Had he looked up, he'd have seen the intense hurt and profound disappointment on her face.

But he did not look up.

"Yes, my Lord."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Christmas Day, 1996**

 **(one week ago)**

"Usually Auntie teaches me, my Lord," said Draco, glancing nervously at Hermione.

"I want to see what you've learned, boy. Sit. Let us show your cousin."

Draco had barely managed to settle himself in the lone kitchen chair placed in the center of the drawing room when the Dark Lord pointed his wand at the boy and said, "Legilimens!"

Hermione watched, concerned, while Draco winced and twitched once, but steadied himself, never losing eye contact with the terrifying man before him. The blond boy's pale face was blank and expressionless – he reminded her of Snape whenever she was shouting at him – and aside from the way the fingernails on his right hand dug into his thigh, she could not tell he was in any distress. When the Dark Lord lowered his wand, Draco let out a loud exhale and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon.

"I am more powerful than your aunt, boy."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Get up." (Draco obliged.) "Sit down, Hermione."

Hermione obeyed.

"I am going to ease into this with you. I am attempting to gauge your natural predilection for the magic of Occlumency. I will ask a few simple questions, and I would like you to lie to me some of the time, and tell the truth some of the time. I want you to close your mind as you do so – I do not want to know when you are lying." He chuckled. "I _will_ know, of course, but I would like for it not to be obvious. After I've seen what I need to, I'll have Draco attempt it on you. His powers for Legilimency are rudimentary at best, but he inherited the Black family tendency to manage to harness such a power. Many cannot, no matter how much they study or practice."

Hermione sat up a little straighter. Surely one could learn anything through studying and practice. And if the ability ran in the Black family, she certainly was not going to be the one unable to perform… especially not when bloody _Malfoy_ could manage.

"On three, Hermione. One… two…"

She felt him enter her mind on two.

 _Clear your mind,_ she thought. She learned as much from Harry, that clearing one's mind was key. He was supposed to have done it every night before bed, to keep the Dark Lord out. But damn, now she was thinking about Harry and the Dark Lord and bedtime and Snape and Hogwarts and Occlumency and Snape's classroom and Snape across the desk from her the other night and she wriggled uncomfortably thinking of Snape and _FUCK_ she was not exactly adept at clearing her mind, not when there was so much going on in there. Had he asked something about Harry, or did Harry just hop into her mind?

"What is your full name?"

"Hermione Jean Gran… Black. Hermione Black."

"Age?"

"Seven…" _Shite_ , she was supposed to lie sometimes. "Twenty."

"Seven-twenty?" She could hear the amusement in his voice.

Draco snorted.

"Seventeen, my Lord."

"What is your mother's name?"

"Bellatrix Black Lestrange." At least that one was easy, though a vision of Mrs. Granger – Mummy – flashed through her mind.

"What is your father's name?"

She opened her mouth, but then she heard the Dark Lord's voice again, and this time she knew it was coming from inside her head. _Lie_ , the voice told her. _Lie to me._

"Ro…dolph…us…?"

"Inhale, Hermione. Exhale. That's a good girl. Relax. How old are you?"

"Twenty." She lied easily this time, surprising even herself.

"I'm going to enter your mind now…"

"You mean you haven't already?!"

"One."

And then he was in her memories, sifting through, looking for Merlin-only-knows what. She saw herself at age thirteen, being protected by Snape while facing down a werewolf. She saw herself at age nine, being scolded by a teacher for talking out of turn. She saw herself at age five, petting the slick head of a little garden snake. She saw herself at age two, splashing gleefully in the tub. She saw herself as a baby, being cradled by a woman with thick dark hair, a woman who smelled of roses… a woman who was not her mother. Not either of her mothers.

And then it stopped.

She felt dizzy, but she had managed to remain in the chair. She closed her eyes, seeing stars, and willed herself to breathe evenly.

"Andromeda," said the Dark Lord. "I'd wondered."

"I wasn't a newborn in that memory," said Hermione. "I didn't even know I _had_ that memory."

"You did not close your mind," chastised the Dark Lord. "You did not even try. You lied to me well enough about your age, the second time; I had high hopes."

"I had to be at least six months old in that memory. Why was I being held by Andromeda? If that _was_ Andromeda?"

"I am going to start again. Close. Your. Mind."

"But, my L-"

This time, he did not count down. He was in her memories again. She was fifteen, gasping when Harry's name was pulled from the Goblet of Fire. She was twelve, hiding in the loo from a massive troll. She was eight, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, flanked by her loving parents.

She was six and she had to use the toilet, but her teacher would not let her leave the classroom… She was going to pee her pants, to have an accident right there in the classroom… To end up standing in a warm puddle in front of _everyone_ … It was _humiliating_.

"No!" she heard herself say aloud. He would _not_ see that.

And then she was forcing him out, gripping the edges of the chair and forcing him away with just her mind, adamant that he not see her childhood shame. And then she was in his mind, and there was her mother, pregnant and beautiful and young and smiling up at him… and then it was over.

"Well done!" He clapped his hands together. "An Occlumens _and_ a Legilimens."

He was pleased.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Eve, 1996**

 **(the present)**

"Something to drink, my Lord?" Bellatrix just wanted him to look at her. He'd hardly looked at her all bloody day. And she looked good today. (She hoped.) She'd gathered half of her wild hair, piled on top of her head and held in place with small silver combs; she knew he liked this style. Her makeup was subtle, save for the red lipstick, which she also knew he liked, and she was wearing a black and silver corset with a long, flowy black skirt. Just as she often did as a girl in her twenties hoping to be Summoned to his side in the middle of the night, everything she wore was purposeful, from the delicate, strappy high-heeled stilettos (she much preferred a lower-heeled laced-up boot) to the green and silver snake bracelet curved around her wrist and half up her forearm.

How could he not have noticed?

What if he did notice, and didn't care?

"Bella?"

"Yes, my Lord?" She rushed to his side, kneeling tall beside his chair, her folded hands resting on his thigh. He was seated facing the fireplace, staring into the flames, which made light dance across his eerie red pupils.

"I have been giving much consideration to the girl as of late."

"Yes, my Lord?" She was disappointed, but also curious… and nervous. "And…?"

"In May, she will have been here one year. I will therefore give her until May to be useful to us, and, more importantly, truly loyal to us. You have not done enough in the half-year she's been here. She still values her friends, Potter, Weasley. Dumbledore. She wants to see the good in them, she believes they are the good. You have done well at manipulating by feeding her bits of negative information about Potter's father and Sirius Black…"

Bellatrix scratched above her breasts, leaving faint red lines across the pale skin there. She hadn't revealed this to Hermione to manipulate her. It had just… happened.

"But it is not enough. She must see us as the _only_ path to a sustainable future, and what's more, she must _genuinely_ want us to win. The war is only just beginning, but it will get ugly, Bella. As it was before. This time, we shall win. And I want her to help us do it."

"I'm trying-"

"You're not. Not hard enough. You're busy enjoying her, plaiting her hair, dressing her up, telling her about your childhood and fantasizing about her future. You want her to be both your daughter and your best friend. You want her to love you, not to fear you. Am I correct?"

"I… I don't believe I can win her loyalties by making her _fear_ me, my Lord."

"Make her fear _them_. Abraxas Malfoy had a Pensieve. Ask Narcissa where it's stored, use it to _show_ her the memory of what they did to her."

Bellatrix breathed in sharply. She couldn't imagine her sister consenting to this, and would feel sick about forcing her, and she also couldn't imagine exposing her daughter to such an atrocity – it was one thing to hear about something in vague terms, and quite another to witness it. But…

"If that is your will, my Lord, I'll talk to Cissy and see that it's done."

"If I am not satisfied with her progress by the time we reach one year of having her here, Bella, she will have to be killed. You will have to kill her."

"But she's my daughter, my Lord. Our daughter. Our only-"

"When this war is over and I am victorious, Bella, I will no longer need you as my soldier."

"My Lord…"

"And I'll see that you are rewarded for your loyalties. For your actions and your successes."

"My Lord…"

"I'll give you another baby, Bella. When the war's over, when Potter is defeated, when Dumbledore is dead, and when the wizarding world is under our control."

"A baby, my Lord?" She didn't dare imagine it, didn't dare hope. "But when will that-"

"I am not a Seer, Bella."

Her eyes burned with furious tears. He was going to ease the pain of killing her daughter with the promise of another baby? Didn't he understand, being a mother didn't work that way! A child was not a pair of shoes or a house-elf, to be discarded and replaced without a second thought. Not to mention that she would likely be past child-bearing age by that time anyway; it was therefore an empty promise, one meant to placate her, as if she'd consent to having her daughter killed for the mere possibility of another in the future.

"I am not a young woman, my Lord. I shall turn forty-six later this year."

"Witches can produce children well into their fifties. You have another decade of fertility."

"Yes, because _that's_ what I want, my Lord." She was still kneeling by his side, but she plopped down now, settling her bum on her heels, removing her hands from his thigh. "I want to be pregnant and nursing and changing nappies when I'm fifty-six."

"Do what's necessary with the girl, and you'll not lose her." He stroked her hair and despite her hurt and anger, she leaned into his touch, practically purring at the contact. "Perhaps, if you manage it well, in ten years, the nappies you're changing will belong to a grandchild rather than one of your own." He began scratching at the back of her neck, and her heart swelled with love for him. "Perhaps, if we win this war in less time than we fought in the first one, you'll be seeing your second child off to Hogwarts in twelve years, while your – _our_ – elder daughter stands by your side.

"I'll make her loyal to us, my Lord." She rested her cheek against his knee, closing her eyes, and relaxing under his touch. "I promise, my Lord, no matter what it takes - I will."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Eve, 1976**

 **(twenty years ago)**

He Summoned her shortly before midnight. She'd been at a party. She was dressed for a party. A low-cut, fitted bodice. A long flowing skirt. Her hair half-up. Her makeup carefully done, a dark eye and red lips.

He hadn't even spoken, hadn't ordered her to the bed or questioned her about the time it took for her to arrive.

He saw her, and he wanted her.

She'd apparated into his room, he'd grabbed hold of her waist, and then he captured her lips with his own.

She'd be staying the night.

Happy Birthday.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Eve, 1996**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape typically spent New Year's Eve alone.

Tonight, he was spending it teaching a frizzy haired know-it-all to brew Amortentia, because that was the next stupid potion on the Sixth Year syllabus.

"Mmm…" Hermione leaned over her cauldron, breathing in deeply. "It smells like freshly mowed grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, salted caramel, the Hogwarts poti… er… Hogwarts! And roses… and…"

"That's… a lot." He typically smelled Lily's hair and licorice, though, oddly, tonight he also smelled roses, the thick pungent scent of Sunsprite roses. Strange.

They finished the potion at ten before midnight, he assigned homework, and then he was set to leave, but she begged him not to. Not just yet.

"It's New Year's Eve, Professor. Nearly midnight. Stay?"

Perhaps it was the heady smell still lingering in the air, but he was feeling less ornery than usual, and so he obliged.

For nearly ten minutes they discussed Hamlet and kept an eye on his pocket watch. Finally, there were only seconds to go.

"Ten, nine, eight…"

Damn, he should have brought a couple of bottles of Butterbeer down here with him. They could have toasted. To what, he did not know. But it seemed the thing to do on New Year's Eve.

"Seven, six, five…"

What _was_ the rose smell? The potion had been bottled and Vanished, but the scent lingered in his nose. In the room. Perhaps it hadn't come from the Amortentia at all.

"Four, three, two…"

He kept his eyes on the watch. 1997 was upon them. What would this new year bring?

"One…"

He turned his head up, to say "Happy New Year," but the words were silenced by the pressure of her lips on his.

He stiffened.

No, more than that.

He froze. As if he'd been hit with Petrificus Totalis, he froze.

Her eyes were closed.

Her lips were warm.

And, for some strange bloody reason, those warm lips were on his.

She was _kissing_ him.

 _She was kissing him?_

She pulled away before he could manage to come up with a suitable reaction. She smiled apologetically.

"It's supposed to be good luck, I've heard." She twirled a lock of that frazzled brown hair around her index finger. "To kiss someone on New Year's, when the clock strikes midnight."

"Yes." He stood, his eyes never leaving her lips. Lips that had, a moment ago, been on his. "Yes, good luck, of course. But now, I must return to Hogwarts."

"Oh." She looked disappointed.

Truth be told, so was he. If kissing at midnight was good luck, taking a much younger woman to bed at sixty seconds past midnight must be luckier than Felix Felicis. And that was what both his body and mind wanted to do, to throw her down on that bed, to divest her of that plain yellow blouse and blue skirt, to kiss her back – _more than kiss her_ – and have her, claim her, enjoy her…

But he was a grown adult in a position of power. A conspirator of her captors. Not her contemporary. Not her equal. Her professor.

And both his brain and his prick would do well to remember that.

He hurried to the door of the cell, whipping out his wand, not making eye contact with her.

"Happy New Year, Miss Granger."

"Happy New Year, Professor." She sat back down on the edge of her bed and fiddled anxiously with the hem of her skirt, clearly embarrassed. "Sir? I'll see you again on Mon-"

He was gone before she'd finished the sentence.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **New Year's Day, 1997**

 **(the present)**

When Bellatrix reached Hermione's room – her cell – it was to find the girl still sound asleep. The cat was curled up beside her, his tail draped over her arm, and both were lightly snoring.

Bellatrix smiled.

It was a new day. A new year. A new beginning.

She had less than six months to turn the girl's loyalty from the Order to the Death Eaters.

Less than six months to save her life.

She would not fail.

Nothing hurt worse than the pain of losing a child, and it was a pain she'd lived with for far too long.

She would not lose her daughter. Not again.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Note:** Some readers like the hints while a couple don't want to see spoilers, so I'm going to put them down under review responses and/or author's notes, after a line break, to make it easier to skip them while reading. Thanks for the feedback! Also, thanks so much to everyone for reading, following, adding to faves, and especially for reviewing! To keep things short, I pretty much only answered a few Qs below, but I truly love and appreciate every comment, prediction, and response!

 **Review Responses**

 **Yourwheezy** – Percy isn't dead, but like in canon he's left his family in favor of the Ministry and at this point has not yet come back (I am skipping the Minister talking to Harry at the Burrow with Percy there 'visiting' since they're doing Christmas at Grimmauld Place). It'll come up again later but isn't a major plot point :)  
 **Lilikaco** – Poor Cygnus! I get what you're saying, though (lol). Glad you like him!

 **Viola** – that will be explained more later, once he's out of Azkaban, so I can't say much yet.

 **FYI** – Thank you, that flashback did have the wrong year but I've fixed it now. Oops!

 **ForsakenKalika** – Holy cow. I'm sorry that happened. You have my sympathies. It's so hard.

 **Silver Orbed Lioness** – I loved your Chap8 Qs, but can't answer them yet! :)

 **Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing!**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **UPCOMING:**

 **Chapter Eleven:** Hermione pushes Bellatrix too far and suffer for it. Severus Snape steps in.

 **Chapter Twelve:** Skipping ahead in time a bit, and flashing back to an important past Easter.


	12. SINFUL

**CHAPTER ELEVEN:**

 **SINFUL**

 **7 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

New Year's Eve morning, he'd been reading the newspaper in bed when she cuddled up beside him and began unbuttoning his nightshirt, running the sharp tips of her nails down the center of his chest, hoping to entice him into starting the new year off on a perfectly lovely note. Her hand had just reached his waistband when he caught her wrist, said, "I'm in no mood," and placed her hand back on her side of the bed. He didn't even take his eyes off the front page.

Two nights later, she borrowed lingerie from her sister, a short white teddy with a low-v-neck that accentuated her breasts (which were finally filling out again, one year post-escape from Azkaban, as she was looking less emaciated now). She'd straddled him in his chair and flicked her tongue against his earlobe and hoped he would reciprocate, but he'd said, "Not now," removed her from his lap, and left the bedroom, heading Merlin-only-knows where.

On the fifth of January, she stepped into the shower while he was standing under the hot stream, massaging soap into his scalp (having no need for shampoo these days). She'd asked him to help her by washing her hair – he used to enjoy washing her hair – but he'd said, "Can't you manage it yourself?" rinsed off, and stepped out.

By the seventh of January, she was more sexually frustrated than she'd been perhaps ever in her life, despite her long period of celibacy in Azkaban, a place that squelched one's libido along with their sense of humor and will to live.

"Why don't you touch me anymore?" she whined over a breakfast of café au lait and croissants, sent up by her sister's elves.

"Excuse me?" Had he any eyebrows, one would be cocked right now. Instead, he sneered and returned to the Prophet.

"You feel more affinity for that bloody newspaper than you do for me as of late!"

"Nonsense." He turned the page. "I feel no strong affinity for either of you in the moment."

"Fuck you."

Slowly, he set down the Prophet, and regarded her with his full attention.

"Excuse me?"

"I said fuck you." She stood, her hands holding the edge of the round table for support, and glared down at him, furious at both the calm, bemused expression and his careless disregard for her feelings. "I have given my entire adult life to you, I've dedicated myself to your cause, I've followed you and fought for you. I went to Azkaban for you. I conceived, carried, bore, lost, and am now _reprogramming_ my only child for you, I repeatedly put myself at risk of dying for you, I have done absolutely everything I possibly could for you, and you… you… you have no more affinity for me than you do that bloody rag?" She whipped out her wand, pointed it at the Prophet, and set the pages on fire. They burned out quickly, leaving a small pile of ash between his mug and plate.

"You are overstepping, Bella," he warned, going slowly to his feet, his eyes not leaving hers. "Watch your tone."

"Fuck! You!"

"Bellatrix…"

"I am not old! I am not unattractive! I am not unintelligent! I am not undesirable! I could have any man I-"

"Have them, then." He returned to his seat, wandlessly Vanished the ashes, and lifted his mug to his lips. Before sipping, he added, "No one is stopping you."

Wounded, she gasped and backed away from the table.

"I have been faithful… your most faithful… your…"

"I appreciate your loyalty." Sip. "It does not go unnoticed." Sip. "But you seem to have forgotten your place. You are my solider, not my-"

"Is it that you don't want to, or that you can't?" She folded her arms across her chest. She was wearing one of her better looking sets of pajamas, borrowed from Narcissa (like most of her attire these days). A forest green silk top with white cap sleeves over short silk shorts, white with green accents. It hugged her chest and hips just enough to be enticing, but wasn't overly seductive. She'd worn it with the hope that it would remind him of some of her earlier nightwear, which she'd donned for him twenty years ago.

Apparently, those days were long forgotten - for _one_ of them.

He again rose slowly, regarding her carefully; the flash in his red eyes told her she was on thin ice, and skating out too far. When he spoke, his voice was without warmth or inflection, as if she were a stranger - or an enemy.

"Excuse me?"

She was too far in to back away now.

"Is it that you _can't_ satisfy me, my Lord, or are you merely disinterested?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched, as did his empty wand hand. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? Do you know who you are speaking to?"

"To whom you're speaking," she corrected arrogantly. "And yes, I know better than anyone to whom I'm speaking. I know you better than-"

"You know nothing." He glided toward her, a menacing air about him, and though her resolve momentarily faltered she puffed out her chest with false bravado and refused to back down, hoping he wouldn't sense how scared she was.

"I know _you,_ my Lord. And you used to know me. You enjoyed _knowing_ me, didn't you? You used to-"

"That was a long time ago, witch. Some twenty years." He was standing right in front of her now.

As much as she didn't want to show fear, she couldn't help taking several small steps back as he advanced, her breath hitching in her throat when her back hit the wall. He put his hands up on either side of her shoulders, keeping her in place. She was trapped. Still, she jutted up her chin and maintained eye contact, tossed her hair back haughtily, and again tried to hit him where it would hurt.

"Exactly twenty years. Twenty years today."

His red eyes darkened, a darkening that used to mean desire, but these days meant only bloodlust. "Are you on the rag, Bella? Have some chocolate. You're not yourself."

Her jaw dropped. She put one hand on her hip, tossed her hair, and forced a sardonic smile onto her lips. "If you're too _old,_ my Lord, simply tell me. I'll understand. There's no reason to be ashamed. Many men lose the ability to satisfy their women upon reaching a certain age. But I've heard there are potions that can help with that. Perhaps Snape could brew one for you." Mockingly, she added, _"Tom."_

"You dare stand directly in front of the Dark Lord, use his former name, and impugn his manhood?"

"Referring to yourself in the third person is an early sign of dementia." (Whether this was true or not, she had no idea, but she was too far in to dig herself out now – might as well do all the damage she could while in the hole.)

He grabbed hold of the back of her hair – hair he'd so often run his fingers through in the past, hair he'd enjoyed washing, hair he'd sniffed and kissed and called beautiful – and by it, yanked her roughly down to the floor, to her knees. She winced when her kneecaps made contact with the hard wood, but she refused to apologize. She would not beg anything from him today, not even her life. Not on this important date. She was too filled with fire.

"Remember how you used to like me in this position?" she asked. "Remember how it made you feel to finish in my mouth, on my breasts? Remember what it was like before your fall, when you were a _man_ , one who-"

"I am now much more than man!" He jerked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

"Are you?" She rose both eyebrows, a look of feigned innocence on her pale face. "You'd think, being 'much more than a man,' you'd manage to satisfy the simple desires of a woman who-"

He struck her.

He did not release her hair when he did so, thus though she fell toward one side but was jerked back into a high kneeling position immediately.

"You think, because I've had you in my bed a few times over twenty years, that you can speak to me as if we're equals?"

He struck her again.

"You think, because I've shared with you a few secrets and a bit of personal history, you are more to me than any other adequate servant? You think you are less disposable? _You think you're special?"_

He struck her a third time.

"You think, because I gave you a child, broke you from Azkaban twice, and saved you from returning a third time, you somehow mean more to me than any other woman with whom I've been to bed? Or any other servant I've sent into battle?"

He raised his fist to strike her again. This time, she threw her hands up over her face, choking back sobs.

"Tell your sister to prepare a bedroom for you, Mrs. Lestrange. I'll not be tolerating your presence in mine any longer."

The hand holding her hair pitched forward and released, letting her fall to the floor, shaking and sputtering and in shock.

"I'm… sorry…" It was difficult to speak through her tears and the throbbing pain in the side of her face.

"Out."

She obeyed, mentally cursing herself for her impertinence – he _had_ warned her several times as of late, hadn't he? – and managed to make it all the way to her sister's bedroom before collapsing onto a heap on the floor.

"Bella!"

Narcissa wrestled herself out from under the blankets of her massive four poster bed and rushed to her sister's side.

"Bella?" She cradled her sister, taking in her bloodied nose and lip, and bruising that would surely be forming along her temple and cheek. "Oh, Bella, what happened?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **7 January, 1977**

 **(twenty years ago)**

The Dark Lord threw down the Daily Prophet, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"What is it, my Lord?" asked Bellatrix. She was curled up in one of his wing backed leather chairs, reading one of her favorite mystery/romance novels for the hundredth time. They had just finished dinner, but it was not yet time to head to bed.

Bed.

He'd taken her to bed only one week and one day before, New Year's Eve.

He'd Summoned her for the first time since their first kiss (kisses… _plural_ … an entire half-day of kisses) and had guided her into the bed, where they'd explored each other for hours, using their mouths and hands to bring each other to bliss, and then fallen asleep sharing a pillow, with her arm around his waist and his hand settled on the small of her back. While they hadn't technically had sex - not sexual intercourse, at any rate - there was no denying their... _relationship..._ such as it was... had changed.

Tonight was the first time he'd Summoned her since, and again he'd started off this time by kissing her gently and calling her beautiful, but then he'd asked if she was hungry for dinner (she was).

She'd had her bag with her, as she'd been out with Cissy and two of their friends earlier in the evening, and, as always, she had a book in her bag – just in case she got bored with the conversation or had to wait for someone to arrive. The book had fallen out of her bag while they were kissing hello, and he'd teased her upon seeing the cover and reading the description.

"Drivel," he'd said. "I'd have thought you'd be the type to read books with more… substance."

"There's substance in these books," she'd argued. "I'm learning how to solve mysteries… and properly pleasure a man. Would you not call that substantial?"

And he'd laughed.

After dinner, he'd read the evening Prophet while she re-read her book, like a real couple, comfortable in the silence. She loved it. Until he threw the paper down – the anger on his face made her uneasy, made the lamb chop dinner swirl in her stomach, and made her heart flutter most unpleasantly.

"Something wrong, my Lord?"

"Yes." He slammed his hand down on the table. "That incredible idiot Dolohov has been arrested."

Her jaw dropped. Antonin Dolohov was one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, but as a prominent investor in their world and a Gringotts board member, he'd taken great pains to keep from participating in any illicit activity he might later be tied to.

"Arrested? On what charge, my Lord?"

"Domestic assault. He beat his wife. Put her in St. Mungo's." The Dark Lord sneered, contorting his handsome face into one of pure repugnance. "I have no patience, Bella, for men like Dolohov or your Rodolphus. Not only is it beneath us as wizards to use physical force in place of magic, but to lower one's self to…" He chucked the paper into the fireplace. "And now he's in Azkaban, awaiting trial, where he'll do us no good."

"That new boy you've been recruiting, Severus Snape? His father beats his mother. Lucius said as much to Cissy. His mother is pureblood, but his father is a Muggle. He's an alcoholic, too. A drunk."

"Muggle filth." The Dark Lord's lip curled. He knew that the Snape boy was a half-blood, but wasn't aware of his father's proclivities. "They all do it, Bella." He regarded her with complete seriousness, not a hint of exaggeration or hyperbole. "All Muggle men are like that. Not a good one among them. I'd wager to bet, if you paid your sister Andromeda a visit tomorrow, you'd find her battered and bruised, but too weak to leave."

"I wish she _would_ leave the Mudblood, my Lord. Five years she's been with him. They have a daughter."

"The Metamorph. I am aware."

"How do you know so much about Muggle men, sir?

He sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and shook his head. She leaned forward in her own chair, her arms folded on the table before her, and awaited his answer.

"Bella, as one of my most valuable followers, I trust you with information I'll not freely share with others. I can trust you, can't I?"

"Yes, my Lord. Absolutely."

"Good." He sighed, as if it took him great effort to share with her whatever he was about to say.

She bit her lip and waited with baited breath.

"In order to win this war, before I encouraged my followers to _start_ rising up, I traveled and studied extensively. I learned about Muggles and their ways – I even lived among them – as the only way to defeat an enemy is to 'know thine enemy.' After all, it is Muggles who raise Muggleborns, and who create half-bloods, Muggles who poison our bloodlines and harvest our magic for their own means, Muggles who are responsible for dying out of the oldest wizarding families. And what I learned about them personally, about them as people, was most disconcerting. They _all_ beat their wives, Bella. They're worse than animals."

He stood, face still screwed up in disgust, and paced back and forth before the fireplace as he continued.

"They all beat their wives, Bella, and they rape, and they take out their frustrations on those close to them rather than on the actual enemies – like young Snape's father does, abusing his wife and son because he cannot accept that he is nothing and no one – they hurt their children, leave them to die, as the blood of their children is worth nothing to them. They are nothing like us!"

He put his hands on either arm of her chair, leaning over her, maintaining eye contact.

"I would never lower myself to beating a woman, or raping one, or resorting to fisticuffs rather than wandwork. I am beyond that, whereas each Muggle cares only for himself, or herself, and not for those around them. Not like me. Not like you."

"No, sir." She stared up at him, more in awe of him than she'd ever been. "My Lord, I care deeply for those around me."

"I know you do, Bella. And I care for all of you, my followers, my Marked Death Eaters, my inner circle. To those who show me loyalty I return it tenfold, in the form of rewards and places of honor. _You_ sit in a place of honor."

This time, the heart flutter signified a surge of love and gratitude and righteousness. "Yes, my Lord."

He straightened and moved back toward the fireplace, leaning on the mantle. The flames flickered across her eyes as she watched him, and he never took his eyes off her.

"I hold my Death Eaters to higher standards than the Muggles and Mudbloods hold their fellow men, as we all should, because those who are Pureblood and dignified and able to properly harness and use magic do not debase ourselves so far as to use fists, not in duels and not at home. I would never do to you as Snape's father does to his mother, or as bloody Dolohov has done to his wife."

"You would never, my Lord." She continued gazing up at him lovingly, her brown eyes wide and bright, taking in his every word, her nails digging into her thighs. Her face was flush and her chest heaved as she inhaled and exhaled. He was an incredible orator, whether at a podium, in the center of a circle of followers, or just here, alone in their bedroom – his bedroom – with her as the solo audience member. She was in love.

"Men who have to rape women are pathetic, Bella. Like your husband. Men who beat their wives. Men who impregnate women and then leave them to die alone just after childbirth, without a second thought given to the woman or the unborn child they've created. _Muggles_. _Mudbloods_. _Filth_. I will not have _filth_ in my ranks. Dolohov will serve his sentence – there is a one year penalty if convicted – and then, once he has returned to us, I shall teach him a lesson."

"Using magic, my Lord?"

"What else, my Bella?" He cupped her cheek, gently stroking her soft skin with his thumb.

"You would never hurt me as Rodolphus did, as he tried to do. My Lord."

"Never." He guided her up from the chair, his hand still on her cheek, as the other hand went to her waist. "We discipline with our wands, not our fists."

"But you'd never _hurt me,_ would you, my Lord? Not even in discipline?"

He leaned down. Their lips were nearly touching.

"Would I ever have to, Bella?"

"I'd do anything you asked of me." Her lips brushed against his as she spoke. " _Everything_."

"Your husband is no longer permitted to touch you."

"I know." She was speaking into his mouth now, as his lips moved to capture hers. "Touch me, my Lord."

Mouths and tongues connected. The hand on her cheek slipped into her hair, her hands went up to cradle his face, he pressed his upper body to hers…

"Give yourself to me," he murmured when they parted. "I want you for my own."

"I thought you were beyond the base, carnal desires of man…" She whispered the teasing words as he sucked at that spot on the side of her neck. A fluttering in her lower belly and a warmth forming between her legs practically begged for him to do as he was proposing, but she wanted him to woo her, to convince her, so she'd not let on. "And I _am_ a married woman, my Lord. It would be wrong."

"Married in name only." His mouth found hers again. "Stay the night with me. Stay the weekend."

"Yes." (Oh, _fuck_ being wooed; she wanted this.)

And then he was undressing her. Slowly. Taking his time. Popping out each hook-eye closure on the front of her corset… drawing her skirt down long, silky legs… stockings… knickers…

She stood before him naked but for her heels, the strappy ones he'd said he liked, and her jewelry, all shining silver and glossy peridot – her birthstone, a light green – save for the thick gold band featuring a series of small diamonds around a larger one on her third finger; her wedding ring. He took her left hand between his, gently ran his fingertips over her Dark Mark, which momentarily burned bright, then twisted the gold band.

"You'll not be needing this."

Off came the ring, the large, ornate one that had been in the Lestrange family for generations. He slipped it into his pocket, kissed her palm, and guided her to the bed.

She reclined onto her back and watched him as he removed his wizard's robe and the attire underneath, a high collared frock coat… a thin white undershirt… dark gray trousers that were already tented…

As he lowered himself on top of her, she wrapped her arms around his back, and inhaled sharply when his bare chest settled against her breasts, his sparse hair tickling her hardened nipples. His erection pressed against her abdomen and she shifted, parting her legs, already warm and wet and ready…

"We are in no rush," he said as his hand moved between their bodies. He caressed her breast, running his thumb over the pad of her nipple, then took it in his mouth, making her back arch.

With her hand on the back of his neck, her nails digging in just a bit, she encouraged him to suck harder, to keep going, not to stop. He kissed along in a horizontal line across the valley between her breasts to the other, which he also took between his lips, teasing with his flicking tongue.

"You belong to me," he murmured as his mouth moved south. He nipped just below her bellybutton, which made her jump and giggle, and then his tongue was exploring her more intimately, as he had on New Year's Eve. At first, he refused contact with her clit, which only made her want it more, and when she reached down to touch herself he swatted away her hands. He licked between her lips and delved inside, drinking and sucking and massaging her inner thighs at the same time.

He finally sucked her clit into his mouth as two fingers entered her, and she cried out at the contact. He fucked her with his fingers and tongue until her hips were spasming beyond her control, and then she was holding a pillow over her face, trying not to scream loud enough to wake the dead. When he stopped, once she'd orgasmed, there were tears streaming down her cheeks, she could scarcely breathe, and she felt heady.

"My Lord…" she whimpered. "Yes…"

He wiped her cheeks and kissed her lips, and positioned himself over her again. One of his hands went to his stiff cock; both of hers went to the backs of his shoulders.

"He's not to touch you, Bella. Not physically, not sexually."

"Yes… yes, thank you, my Lord…" She rubbed against his outer thigh with her inner thigh, prompting him to enter her. For years, this had been all she wanted. Since even before that first time he Summoned her to this room – how long ago was that? Five years? Six? She'd given herself entirely to his cause… and she wanted to give herself entirely to _him_.

"You are mine now, Bella. Special to me. My most faithful follower. My most competent soldier…" He slid his tip between her folds, circling it over her clit, making her wriggle and moan. "The only one for whom I would lower myself in _this_ way…"

"Please, please, my Lord…"

He kissed her soundly, pulling back only as he pushed into her. Again, she cried out, and her nails went into his shoulders – there would be marks. He drove in slowly, paused not to give _her_ time to adjust, but to give himself a steadying moment (it had been years since he'd last been with a witch) and then he began to thrust, deep and slow, and then faster, filling her… fulfilling her fantasies… giving in to what he'd told himself he'd never again need, as he had no desire to rely on, or even derive pleasure from, another person.

"Harder, please, my Lord," she begged, and he contentedly obliged.

"My Bella," he groaned into her wild rose-scented hair. "My beautiful Bella, brilliant Bella… Mine…"

"Yes!" she cried. "My Lord, _yes... ohh... yes!"_

He was pounding into her now, squeezing her breast, holding firmly to her thigh, fucking her hard and fast, giving her everything she wanted and taking from her all he could. She hit her peak a second time, crying out and digging those nails into his flesh, tearing at his skin, tears welled in her eyes from the pure pleasure of it. He couldn't help but smile with sheer satisfaction – it may have been years since he last took a woman to bed, but _clearly_ he'd not lost his touch in that time.

When he was almost _there_ himself, he abruptly stilled, kissed the bite mark he'd already left on her neck, and murmured into her ear, "Tom."

"Wh… what?" She opened her eyes, meeting his, and bit her lip.

"On New Year's Eve, my birthday, you asked what my name had been when I was in school, when I knew your father as a young man. I told you it was a name I'd left behind forever, one those former schoolmates are now forbidden to speak, as I am now Voldemort – and those who are of any intelligence are afraid even to whisper that."

"Yes, my Lord." Her entire body was trembling, vibrating, pulsating around him. She tried not to let her hips jerk, though she was desperate for him to continue.

His lips again went to her ear.

"Tom Riddle," he repeated, his voice low, almost a growl. "That was my name, then. _Tom_. Say it."

"Tom," she echoed faintly. She was dizzy with bliss, and her heart nearly exploded at the realization he was trusting her with one of his greatest secrets. "Tom Riddle."

"Voldemort." He resumed thrusting. Her head tipped back. Her fingers slipped between them, massaging her clit, as his hands held firmly to her bucking hips. She was on the edge again.

"Say it."

"Vol… Voldemort."

"It's a name you'll not speak outside these walls. You'll not speak either name outside these walls."

"Tom Riddle," she whispered. It became a moan. "Tom… Tom Riddle…"

"Yes." Harder, faster… Fuck… He was almost there… She was almost there… He grabbed her breast and squeezed, hard, and then his hand entangled itself in the back of her hair. She tilted her pelvis and met him thrust-for-thrust…

"Bella," he groaned. "My Bella…"

And she spasmed and jerked as her inner walls clenched around his throbbing cock, and it made him spill into her.

"Bella," he growled. "Mine."

And, with his blessing, she cried out his name.

"Tom! Tom Riddle, yes… Tom… _T-t... oh..._ _Voldemort!_

 **-0-0-0-**

 **7 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

For the last week, Hermione had relished her little bit of freedom. She'd made friends with the house-elves, who seemed to enjoy doting on her in the kitchen, she'd finally managed to work her aching underused muscles by swimming laps in the massive pool, and she was feeding her brain as much as it could take in via books of all sorts found in the expansive Malfoy library…

But it wasn't enough.

She wanted her wand. She wanted the sunshine.

She wanted Snape to pay attention to her.

He'd been distant since New Year's Eve, since she pressed her lips to his on impulse, since he'd hurried out of her cell. She didn't know why it was so important to her to connect with him – perhaps because he was the only person from her old life she still saw on the regular, or perhaps because she assumed he, like her, lived in some gray area between the light and dark, toeing the line, transcending both worlds, or perhaps it was just because she'd always hungered for the approval of her teachers and he was, at the moment, the only one she had – and one of the hardest to impress.

But she wanted him to pay attention to her.

She also wanted to know more about Narcissa and the Longbottoms, and she wanted to know whether Harry and Ron still missed her, and she wanted to know why Andromeda had been holding her as a baby, and why the Dark Lord seemed so pleased by her natural gift for Occlumency and Legilimency…

She wanted to know _everything,_ but no one told her _anything,_ and it was frustrating.

"Tea is late today." Bellatrix reached the bottom of the cellar stairs, a tray hovering in front of her. It was nearly four in the afternoon and Hermione hadn't seen her all day, not even during her two hours out (which she'd spent in the pool today. The ceiling, like the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall, was enchanted to look like the sky outside, making it the closest to sunshine she'd seen in some time).

"Are you alright?" Upon catching a glimpse of her mother's puffy cheek and forming bruises, she hopped up and went to the cell door. "You're hurt."

"I fell," said Bellatrix, and though she had no tells – no avoidance of eye contact, no scratching above her collar, no unnatural flatness in her voice – Hermione was certain this was a lie.

They set up the tea things, preparing their own, and settled across from each other at Hermione's desk.

"Auntie says she loves her husband very much. She misses him. And she worries about Draco. That's why she drinks." Hermione wasn't sure why she brought this up at this moment – it was information she'd had for a week now, and it was of no real importance to either of them – but it was difficult to make conversation day in and day out when every single day was the same.

"Auntie is… stressed."

"What happened to your face?"

"I told you, I fell." She lifted her mug to her lips and sighed. "Drink your tea before it's cold."

"If it went cold, couldn't you do a warming charm? Or I could. You could let me use your wand, just to-"

"No."

"But I-"

"No."

"But-"

"I said no!" Bellatrix slammed down her mug, causing hot tea to slosh out over the side. Hermione flinched.

"Sorry."

"The Dark Lord does not believe you're ready for your wand."

Hermione glowered. "I don't see what you see in him. I don't understand how you could have had a baby with him. Are you one-hundred percent certain he's my father? Don't misunderstand, I don't want Rodolphus to be my father either, but-"

"You think I was such a slag some eighteen years ago that I conceived a child without knowing with one-hundred percent certainty who the father is?" She added another sugar cube to her tea and sighed again. "Drink your tea."

"Do you love him? The Dark Lord, I mean."

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know. I'd like to know if my parents – when I was younger, and I knew I was adopted but had no idea about… about any of these, I didn't even know I was a witch, I used to fantasize about my birth parents. I wondered whether they loved each other but couldn't handle a baby for some reason, or if they were together only once, and I was an accident, or if-"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me!" Hermione set down her own mug. "Don't I deserve to know whether I was conceived in love? Or were you his… did he…" Hermione's face paled, then went slightly green. "Was it like Longbottom and Potter and Black with Auntie?"

"He's not a rapist." Bellatrix reached for a biscuit. "He'd never hurt me. Not on purpose."

"But he hurt you the night you took me here. He could have killed you! And me! He hit you, and he cursed you, and he-"

"You needn't rehash it for me; I was there." She passed the biscuit plate to her daughter. "Here. Chocolate. Cissy and I made them."

"You were baking together? When? Why didn't you ask me? I like to bake. I could have-"

"You talk constantly!" Bellatrix winced and pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Why must you talk all the time?"

"I spend most of my time alone, so when I see you, I have a lot to say. Maybe if I had more friends to talk to-"

"You want me to find you a friend?"

"This is delicious!" Hermione chewed a bite of the chocolate biscuit. "Much better than the breakfast Auntie made the day the house-elf died. Her name was Sudsy, by the way. Sudsy the house-elf. Died of old age. The other house-elves are still in mourning. She was very popular among the-"

"I could not care much less." Bellatrix set down her own biscuit and pressed her fingertips gently to her wounded cheek. "You've been swimming? Your hair looks brittle."

"Yes, I could use more of that shampoo you gave me for Christmas, please. The rose one. It smells so pretty. It smells like…" Hermione glanced toward the vial of Amortentia on top of her bookshelf. The roses were one of many smells that had found their way into her nostrils when she and Snape brewed that one. "Does the Dark Lord love you?"

"What?"

"You love him, don't you? I know you do. I can see it when you look at him. It's obvious. It was obvious when you were dancing at my birthday party. Even though you won't say, I _know_ you love him."

"Well, aren't you quite the know-it-all, then?"

"But does he love you? Can he? Dumbledore thinks he doesn't have the ability to feel love."

"Does he, now?"

"Dumbledore told Harry-"

"Dumbledore is old and senile, and he was never one to espouse the truth even in his younger years, nor was he one for justice. He knew what his Order did to my sister, but he passed along the information she gave them just the same, knowing it could get her killed, and those vile blood-traitors were never held accountable." Her hand went to the dagger in its sheath on her hip. "Until I took care of matters."

"Is that why you tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom? It wasn't for information about the Dark Lord, it was because-"

"I already explained that to you."

"But I want to know more! All you told me was-"

"I don't wish to talk any more about it."

"He doesn't love you."

Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow, making her look a little too much like Snape for Hermione's liking.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think you fell. I think he left those bruises on your face. I think he hurt you – he _hurts_ you. I think-"

"Stop."

"I think he abuses you, same as he does his other followers. I think you're afraid of him. You might have loved him once, but now-"

"You're an accomplished Legilimens, are you? Three Occlumency lessons and now-"

"He's never loved you. If he loved you, he wouldn't hurt you, he wouldn't have nearly killed you that night you brought me back here. My mum always said that a boy who loves you won't hurt you, even though some boys who hurt you will say it's because they love you. If the Dark Lord loved you, he wouldn't have left bruises all across your face. He-"

"Stop talking."

But Hermione could not stop talking.

"...probably doesn't have it in him to love; maybe he's not even human enough anymore, considering, what with being nearly destroyed and brought back and all that's happened since 1981. I think it's tragic, that my mother had a baby with a man who treats her as he does you. I think you ought to think more highly of yourself than to allow that. I think you love him, but he's not worthy of your love, because he won't – or can't – reciprocate it."

"Shut it." Bella stood up, wincing as she did so, for her knees were still sore from having been slammed to the floor earlier. She backed toward the door of the cell.

"He doesn't love you. You want to believe he does, don't you? You want to think having a baby together means that you meant more to him than you do, but he's shown you time and time again… He was brought back to his body months and months before he broke you from Azkaban, and he let you languish there when you were pregnant even though he was at full power then, and-"

"I swear, Hermione, if you don't shut-"

"Why did he leave you there in 1979? Had he broken you out then, we never would have been separated, no one would have been told to drown me, you wouldn't have spent years thinking your only child had died. I wouldn't have spent my childhood wondering about my mother who birthed me in jail and probably didn't even want me. We both suffered because he couldn't be bothered to-"

"Stop!" Bellatrix cried. She pressed her palms against her eyelids. _Was the girl somehow reading her? Seeing into her soul? Using her darkest thoughts against her? It was like being back in Azkaban, the pain, the unrelenting questions – how could he leave her there? Why didn't he save their child? Why hadn't he ever said 'I love you' when she'd said it over and over and over again?_

"...break you out sooner." Hermione added simply, sadly. "He doesn't love you."

"That's not true," whispered Bellatrix, sounding wounded.

Annoyed by this, Hermione stood, put both hands on her hips, and regarded her mother with a mix of revulsion and pity. "You put all of your faith in him and you'll do anything for him, but the love is entirely one-sided. It's pathetic! Everyone thinks you're this strong woman, this force to be reckoned with, someone to fear, but you do all you do just because you're hoping it'll make him love you back, but he never will! He won't, he can't, and doesn't want to, but you refuse to see it, to accept it!" The more she thought about it, the more furious she got, the more she wanted to shove some sense into her pitiable mother. "He's not worth you! He! Doesn't! Love! You!"

" _CRUCIO_!"

Bellatrix Lestrange didn't pull her wand, but she didn't need it. Wandless magic was among her many gifts – honed through years of practice – and so even without it her Unforgivable caused the girl to double over in pain, as her insides contorted and burned, and she hollered with pain.

"No!" shouted the deep timbered voice of a man at the foot of the stairs. And, suddenly, Snape was there. He had the cell door open, he was wrestling with Bellatrix, lowering her arm, interrupting her eye contact. He got in front of her, blocking Hermione from her view, and shoved her roughly back against the bars.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I… I…" She couldn't speak, couldn't think. Beyond him, Hermione was curled up in the fetal position, sobbing. "I didn't mean to…"

"Are you trying to kill her, or only to drive her mad like Frank and Alice?"

"I didn't mean to…"

"Two days ago you told me you'd do anything to keep her alive but needed my help, and now I arrive for her tutoring session to find you torturing my pupil?"

"I… I…"

"Narcissa!"

"Yes?" Narcissa, who'd been fast on his heels but stopped short upon seeing her sister, stepped from the shadows.

"Take her upstairs."

"Please…" Bellatrix tried to rush to Hermione, but Severus caught her around the waist, holding her against him. "Please, love, I'm sorry."

"Get out." He lifted her a few inches off the floor, carried her beyond the cell door frame, and pushed her – not gently – toward her sister. "Go!"

Narcissa did as directed, steering Bellatrix toward the stairs, though now Bella was crying nearly as loudly as Hermione was. Severus Snape locked the cell door and moved quickly to Hermione's side. She'd collapsed onto the floor, so gingerly he lifted her and placed her on the bed.

"It's alright," he said, his voice low. "I've got you."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **7 January, 1990**

 **(seven years ago)**

When Severus Snape started teaching at Hogwarts, several of his students had previously been his peers, as he was only a few years older than they were. He was, therefore, lectured by Professor McGonagall about the importance of decorum, discretion, and consent, power imbalances, and the golden rule – which basically boiled down to, "It doesn't matter how old they are or how willing they seem, you can't shag the students."

It was an awkward and humiliating chat, especially as, at the time, he was a twenty-one-year-old virgin who'd never even contemplated the possibility of shagging a student.

"Have a biscuit, Severus," she'd said, passing the tin of ginger newts across her desk. "I realize this is an uncomfortable topic of conversation, but as the Deputy Headmistress, uncomfortable topics of conversation as they pertain to your job is part of my job."

"I understand," he'd said, reaching for a biscuit even though he hated the taste of ginger, his father's favorite flavor. He took a bite. Every bit as disgusting as he remembered from his youth.

"Excellent," McGonagall had said, looking relieved. "In that case, we're through here, but feel free to stay and finish your tea."

It was because of that conversation, when the student seated on her desk with her legs spread and her blouse open, asked, "What are you thinking about?" he answered, "Ginger newts."

"You're an odd man," said the student, but his oddness didn't stop her from taking his semi-erect cock in her hand and stroking it until he was as ready as she was, nor did it stop her from gasping and moaning when he fucked her, nor did it stop her from asking whether they could do this again during next week's detention.

"Do you intend to be assigned detention again next week?" he asked.

"Oh, I think so Professor," the pink-haired Hufflepuff answered cheerily. "I believe I've been quite naughty this evening, and therefore deserve a number of additional detentions… don't you?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **7 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"Does this help?" he asked. He was massaging a healing salve of his own creation into Miss Granger's abdomen, where the worst of the pain from that particular Cruciatus Curse was being felt. He had the sneaking suspicion it hurt more here than in her chest (where it had been directed) due to the lingering effects of Dolohov's curse, which he hadn't been able to identify when healing her at Malfoy Manor a few days after her abduction.

"I pushed her," whimpered Hermione. She was reclined on her back on the bed, he was seated beside her, and she flinched as his hand came into contact with the more tender parts of her flesh. "I don't know why I did it. I could see it was hurting her, and her face… he did that to her face, don't you think?" She sniffled. "Why did I have to say those things? What was I thinking?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I do believe she loves you – she told me as much two days ago, when she Floo-called me desperately seeking assistance as it pertains to you."

"Assistance?"

"The Dark Lord does not feel you are progressing quickly enough in your 'reprogramming.'"

"My what?" She hissed through her teeth as he massaged the salve into the spot just below her lower right ribs. "Reprogramming?"

"He wants to turn you into the daughter you would have been had you not been raised by Muggles and befriended by Potter and Weasley. She is at a loss for how, as she does not wish to hurt you."

"She does not wish to hurt me?" Hermione chuckled bitterly. "Alright."

"There is much she could teach you, show you, about their ways, the tactics of the Order, what those who followed Dumbledore and the Ministry line did during the first war, beyond even what happened to your aunt. War crimes. Heinous acts. But she does not wish to frighten or scar you. I believe she is hoping, if you learn to love her as she does you, you'll naturally let go of your allegiances to Dumbledore and Potter. If she shows you more love…"

"She used the Cruciatus on me!"

"Yes, well, that was hardly planned, was it?" The salve was completely absorbed into her skin now, but he did not stop massaging her midsection, nor did she ask him to. Her skin was so soft, so smooth. This close proximity was dangerous… but he enjoyed it. "She also seeks to make you a greater witch, to help you reach your full potential. You have a brilliant mind and you are talented with a wand, of this I assured both her and the Dark Lord. He wants you to be not only loyal, but useful. He wants you to be not only dedicated to his side, but an asset to it." His pinky finger slipped just a little too low, under her waistband, before his hand moved up again, settling under her blouse-and-bra-covered chest.

"But what does my mother want from _you_?" asked Hermione. She wriggled a little, and he couldn't help picturing her on her back like this with one hand in her knickers, the other on her breast, not so long ago. He felt a sinful tightening in his trousers, but still he continued to touch her.

"She believes you are more like her than you realize. She knows that knowledge appeals to you, you want to know everything, and she thinks you, like she, can be seduced…"

"Se… seduced?"

"By the Dark Arts. She wants to add to your tutelage. Not defense… but the Dark Arts."

"Learning to Unforgivable Curse people? I don't think-"

"There's so much more to it than that, Hermione." She shivered, perhaps because he'd used her first name, as he so rarely did. "There's so much more to it than torture. There is so much the Ministry does not want citizens to know, so much that Hogwarts refuses to teach. Bellatrix and I… we could teach you. If you wanted to learn. Skills like Occlumency and Legilimency. How to conjure and control Fiendfyre. I told your potions class on day one I could teach you about potions that would 'bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses… even put a stopper in death…' I did not tell you how many of these potions are banned from my curriculum."

She perked up considerably at this. "You could teach me banned magic?"

"I could." His hand stilled, settled on her lower abdomen, just above the waistband of her gray wool skirt. "I could teach you a great many things you'd never learn at Hogwarts, Miss Granger. If only you wanted to learn."

"I do," she whispered, cinnamon eyes wide, enthralled and intrigued. "I want that."

* * *

 **A/N:**

This chapter was super long, so I had to split it in half. For that reason, the Easter chapter has been bumped back to Thirteen, so Chapter Twelve's teaser is new. I think you'll be happy with the change, though – it means spending more time with Snape and Hermione on his birthday (9 January) which is when their relationship starts to take shape... insert mischievous grin here.

Review responses at the end of the next chapter!

Thank you!

 **-AL**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve:** Snape spends his birthday with Hermione; they share a significant moment.

 **Chapter Thirteen:** Skipping ahead in time a bit, and flashing back to an important past Easter.


	13. PRELUDE TO A BIRTHDAY

**CHAPTER TWELVE:**

 **PRELUDE TO A BIRTHDAY**

 **8 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione was curled up in one of the comfier chairs in the library when Bellatrix entered, bringing with her a burst of cool air from the dark hall. They hadn't seen each other in nearly twenty-four hours, not since Narcissa hurried Bellatrix away while Severus went to Hermione's side, and frankly Hermione wasn't keen to see her right now.

"I… apologize." Bellatrix, leaning against the doorframe, had obvious difficulty choking out the words. She was not usually the type to be sorry, no matter what she'd done, but she'd been nothing but since provoking the Dark Lord the day before.

"The Grangers never hit me," said Hermione, not looking up from her page. "They did not believe in corporal punishment. They loved me. They taught me we don't hurt the ones we love."

"But _you_ did."

"I… what?" Hermione set the book in her lap. "What do you mean?"

 _"You_ hurt _me_ yesterday. I have tried to be nothing but good to you since I brought you here, risking my life to keep you alive, arguing with the Dark Lord over your usefulness, insisting you be properly educated, begging my sister and nephew to accept you as a member of our family…" She stepped farther into the room, into the light, letting the door shut behind her. "I've done everything I could for you, and still, it means nothing."

Hermione's eyes widened. Her mother's hair was pin-straight, parted down the middle, covering much of the bruised side of her face, and falling all the way to her waist. She was dressed strangely too, in Muggle clothes, but out of date ones. Late 70s fashion, Hermione guessed. White trousers that flared out below the knee, a dark orange shirt with the shoulders cut out, a wide yellow belt. It was… strange.

"You used the Cruciatus Curse on me."

"Because you forced me to! I had to stop you. Oh, Hermione…" Bellatrix rushed to Hermione's side, kneeling on the floor by her chair as she so often did with the Dark Lord, resting her chin on the girl's knee. "Every word you spoke sliced into me like a dagger. I begged you to stop, but you wouldn't listen. Do you know how it made me feel to hear you speak those cruel words? Have you any idea how deeply that wounded me? And when I was already emotional – you could _see_ that he hit me, you didn't for a moment believe that I fell. I was vulnerable in that moment and you preyed upon my weakness. As a Slytherin, I ought to be proud, but as your mother it shattered my heart."

"I… it did?" Hermione placed the book on the small table beside her and fiddled with the hem of her skirt. She felt guilty, but also powerful. "I did that to you?"

"Here." Bellatrix unsheathed her knife, which was hanging from its holster off her belt loop. "If you hate me now as you hated me yesterday, do us both a favor and slit my throat. Then you can remove your key and escape before the Dark Lord catches you – the enchantments I placed on it will die with me – and go back to your Muggle-loving friends, go back to the sons of the men who destroyed my dear sister, go back to the Headmaster who let Severus be tormented by my cousin all through school, go back to the home you shared with the Grangers - they won't be there, but the house still stands - and leave me here to bleed to death on this floor, because I cannot live if I lose you again, but I also cannot have us turned on each other as we were yesterday, when I felt so trapped and defensive I had no choice but to lash out, in a misguided attempt at self-preservation."

Hermione blinked. Her mother was as overdramatic as she was eloquent, but her pain seemed genuine. She continued to hold out the knife.

"I hated having to hurt you, dear Hermione, my Hydra, but it was all I could do to stop _you_ from hurting _me_. I'm sorry."

She placed the knife in Hermione's lap and shuffled back a little on her knees, hands handing limply by her sides, her wand nowhere in sight. Her heavy-lidded eyes were wide and watery, and though she'd obviously taken pains to carefully apply makeup, the bruising around her eye and cheek had purpled and was more evident than it had been the day before. She did not drop her gaze from that of her daughter.

"If you hate me as much now as you did yesterday, please, do us both the favor of putting me out of my misery, but know that I died loving you more than I've ever thought it possible to love anyone… including the Dark Lord."

Hermione fingered the carved handle of the knife in her lap. She could do it. She could slit the throat of this woman – the woman who'd stolen her from her adoptive parents, who'd made it a mission to turn her away from her friends – and return to Hogwarts, to Harry, to the Weasleys and Dumbledore. She could leave Aunt Narcissa and her devastating history, cousin Draco and his mysterious task, Professor Snape and his private tutelage… and her birth mother, the one she'd spent the whole of her young childhood dreaming about finding.

Hermione grasped the handle of the dagger and thrust it toward Bellatrix – the glistening blade pointed back at herself.

"I don't hate you, Mother."

Bellatrix accepted the knife, placed it back in its holder, and fell forward to sob gratefully in Hermione's lap, but as the girl soothed her by stroking her long, straight, shiny hair and whispering "I'm sorry" over and over, Bellatrix couldn't hide her smile.

A Slytherin isn't worth her House if she doesn't know how to properly manipulate a Gryffindor.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **8 January, 1997**

 **(present)**

Severus Snape sat in his office, drumming his fingertips on the desktop, lost in thought. Just over a week ago, the Gryffindor had kissed him. Quite unexpectedly. And he'd frozen.

Though she was not a Hogwarts student, and though she was of legal age, she was still too bloody young for him. He had nineteen years on her - nearly twenty! - and she certainly didn't seem to be in her right mind. Who would be, after so many months of imprisonment and psychological manipulation? The Dark Lord and Bellatrix were setting their daughter up to be one fucked up woman. Hermione Granger/Black had no idea who she was anymore; obviously she couldn't know what she wanted.

He glanced around the office, not looking at anything in particular, though eventually his eyes settled on the Pensieve. It belonged to Dumbledore, who was using it to show Harry Potter a number of important memories. Snape, on the other hand, used it to store important memories during the dunderhead boy's Occlumency sessions. Sometimes, though, Snape used this magic for other means. After returning to Hogwarts after that New Year's Eve surprise, for example, he used it to fill his mind with something other than the feel of her lips against hers, by watching (and rewatching) one of his favorite memories of a particular pink-haired Hufflepuff who was good on her knees.

"A vulgar man, you are," he muttered, his voice full of disgust and self-loathing. There was a time he tried to blame Lily for this. Her abandonment and scorn had turned him darker and angrier than ever, he'd reasoned. But age and wisdom had helped him see the problem was inside him all along.

"How sickeningly self-aware." He glared at the Pensieve, as if the basin were somehow at fault for his sour mood. Perhaps he should return to it again. He sighed, tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, and let his mind momentarily flash back to the time he bent her over this desk. She was wearing her uniform skirt, even though she'd been out of school nearly a year. Her uniform skirt, a plain white blouse, and no knickers.

He groaned.

Nymphadora Tonks was not the only young woman he'd fucked in his office, but she was the only one he'd also fucked in his classroom, his sitting room, the Shrieking Shack, the astronomy tower, and in his overlarge bed at Hogwarts. She also wasn't the only one he'd taught before taking her to bed, but she was the only one still a student when it started.

And she was the only one with whom he could actually say he'd had an affair.

The others – scattered others, most not repeats – were using him just as he was using them. One wanted from him a letter of nomination to get on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Another was seeking a Potions apprenticeship which required a his recommendation. A third was hoping for an introduction to the Dark Lord's inner circle of Death Eaters; this was the most recent, only a fortnight ago, and he had no intention of doing as she'd requested, though he'd promised he would. The women who came to him seeking a shag were generally more interested in making his position - whichever it may be - work for them, whereas with Tonks, he not only took advantage of his position, he took her in multiple positions (and enjoyed every one). As a Metamorph, she could offer him an indulgence of fantasies that the other little swots and slags simply couldn't.

There was the additional plus that she, unlike the scattered others, wasn't with him in exchange for improved marks or extra help, as one might expect of a student, and she certainly wasn't keen to get hired at Hogwarts or to receive the Dark Mark. She was with him for the very best reason an attractive and vibrant young woman _would be_ with a man like him:

She wanted to upset her mother.

It had worked.

He closed his eyes and tried to put Hermione and her impromptu kiss out of his mind, instead focusing on that time Tonks came to visit, nearly a year after she'd finished school, wearing no knickers under her to-short skirt and with the offer of making her body look however he wanted it too.

He'd told her that her body was fine the way it was.

But requested she turn her hair ginger.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **8 January, 1990**

 **(seven years ago)**

"I could have you fired." Andromeda Tonks sat across from Severus Snape in his office, eyeing him over the rims of her glasses. She had a cigarette between her thumb and forefinger – she pinched it as if she was smoking something other than tobacco – and she held the glass of wine he'd provided in her other hand. She drank a lot, and quickly, and he tried not to be bothered by the ash dripping onto his floor.

"I mean it, Snape. Fired. Out of work. Never to teach again."

"Go to Dumbledore, then," he said impassively. "Your daughter's reputation will suffer more greatly than mine. I am but a man, a plain, unattractive man with few prospects, a man for whom others feel revulsion and pity, but she, the Metamorph, is a seductress, a Lolita, an immoral slattern who _used me_ to–"

"She is a rebellious teenager, nothing more. And nothing pleases a rebellious teenager girl more than getting under the skin of her mother. As teenagers are wont to do."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "She is of age. Not a child. An adult. Legally."

"I am aware." She sipped the last of the wine. He flicked his wand, summoning over the bottle, but she shook her head. He returned it to the cabinet.

"Why would she use _me_ to get under your skin, Mrs. Tonks?"

"You're the only former Death Eater to whom she has access." Andromeda let out an undignified snort. "I certainly hope you didn't think you were special."

"You abandoned your entire family to marry a Muggleborn only for your daughter to want nothing more than to bed a former Death Eater?" Sip. "How… quaint."

"We don't get on, she and I." She took a long drag of the cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. It curled up around her face, seeping into her curly black hair. "We fight as much as I used to with my own mother."

"And that's why she told you…?"

"She wrote me about your little 'affair,' yes. Seemed quite pleased with herself." Andromeda crushed the cigarette out in her wine glass, then set it on Severus' desk. "I've come to you because I want you to stop."

"Why?"

"Why?!" Andromeda dug her fingernails into her chest, just above the scooped neckline of her blouse. "She's my child, Snape! She's a monster at the moment, a brazen little bitch, and sometimes I want to strangle her without the help of magic, but she's still mine. How would you feel if she were _your_ child?"

"Confused." He set down his own wineglass. "As you and I have never been together, I would be confused, to say the least, if she were _my_ child."

"You know that's not how I meant it." Andromeda stood, glaring down at him. "She won't be a rebellious teenager forever, nor will she be your student much longer. She will come around and she will regret this, and I will not forget this, and it will come back to bite you in the arse in the end."

"I'm trembling with fear."

"You don't want me as your enemy, _Professor_." She spat out the title. "I may have left my father's home for that of a Muggleborn, but make no mistake – I am a Slytherin, I am a Black, and I am not the least bit intimidated by any former Death Eaters, least of all you. You'll end this 'affair' with my daughter post haste, or you'll live to regret it if I have to dedicate the rest of my life to ruining yours, understand?"

He smirked. "Oh, Mrs. Tonks. I _do_ thank you for stopping in, but if you don't mind, I need to get a bit of rest before tonight's detention. A certain Hufflepuff owes me two hours of her time for her cheek this morning in my classroom, and I want to be fully energized for the encounter."

He narrowly deflected her nonverbal Cruciatus.

She kept her wand at the ready, glaring at him as if daring him to fight back. He got the impression she was hoping he would, in order to excuse her response. Which, he assumed, would again be "Crucio!"

"An Unforgivable Curse?" He tutted. "That's illegal, Mrs. Tonks. Careful. You don't want to end up sharing an Azkaban cell with your dear sister."

"And you don't want to end up sharing a grave with your dear Lily." Her sneer curled into a cruel smile. "Or do you?"

"What do you know of Lily?" He immediately cleared his mind.

"I know things, Severus Snape," she said, one hand on her hip, the other holding her wand loosely. She looked like her elder sister in this pose. Over confident. Wicked. "I know so very many things, as a matter of fact. About you. About the Potters. About my daughter, my sisters, your Dark Lord. About Dumbledore."

This time, she sent a nonverbal stinging hex, so quickly he hadn't even seen her wand hand twitch. The hex hit him in the knee. He swore.

She laughed.

"Severus Snape? You don't know it yet, and I know you don't believe me, but I just might be the most dangerous person you know."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **8 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"I'm sorry I hurt you," whispered Bellatrix. She was still kneeling on the floor beside Hermione's chair, and the girl was stroking her hair.

"It's my fault," said Hermione. "I made you. I pushed you. _I'm_ sorry."

"It will never happen again." Bellatrix pressed her lips to the girl's knee. "I promise."

Just then, the door swung open, and in _he_ walked.

Him, the Dark Lord.

Bellatrix hurried to her feet to greet him respectfully. Hermione remained seated, one knee crossed over the other, arms crossed across her chest. She stared truculently up at him, as if daring him to demand she do as her mother had.

He took the unspoken dare.

"You'll stand when I enter the room, Miss Black."

"Or what?" asked Hermione. "You'll beat me as you did my mother?"

Bellatrix gasped. While she had exhibited her own impertinence to his face on multiple occasions as of late, it terrified her to hear the same coming from her daughter. Her eyes darted back and forth between them, wide and fearful.

"She didn't mean that, my Lord."

He held up a hand.

"Tell me, little girl, are you bothered by what I did to your mother?"

"Of course I'm bothered by it!" Hermione leapt to her feet. "You left her bruised! Look at her face! Look what you did to her! She has been nothing but good to you for some twenty years – good and loyal, faithful, _loving_ – and you repay her, how? By _hurting_ her?"

"Interesting. It seems when I hurt you, she hurts, and when I hurt her…"

"You shouldn't hurt anyone! Only a monster would–"

"Hermione!" Bellatrix grabbed her by the wrist, digging her fingernails into the girl's skin. "She doesn't know what she's saying, my Lord. Please, forgive her."

"I think she knows exactly what she's saying, Bella." He smiled. "Do let her go on. I want to know exactly what the disrespectful little mite thinks of me."

" _Disrespectful_? I think you think the way to command _respect_ from people is to scare them into respecting you, but that's not respect, that's fear! Respect is earned, not demanded. And if I _am_ disrespectful, it's only because I have no respect for men who abuse women as you have, for men who settle disagreements with their girlfriends by beating them into submission! I cannot respect–"

"I quite agree." Again, he held up a hand to silence her. "I behaved monstrously and am not currently deserving of respect from either of you. I am ashamed of my actions."

Bellatrix, her jaw dropping, loosened her grip on Hermione's wrist. The fizzle went out of Hermione too, as she tried to make sense of his statement.

"What?" she asked stupidly.

"I hurt your mother. I do not deny it." He stepped closer, gently pushed back Bella's straightened hair, and cupped her bruised cheek. "I lost my temper. I became the sort of man I once rallied against, one who uses his fists in anger, when we should only use words or wands, depending upon the situation at hand. But yesterday morning, in that moment, when I struck your mother as I did, I became no better than a Muggle. The worst sort. And I regret it."

"You… do?" Hermione glanced at Bellatrix, but her mother was focused entirely on the face of the Dark Lord, an expression of adoration in her eyes as she leaned into his touch.

"You didn't want to hurt me," said Bellatrix softly. "I _made_ you. I _pushed_ you. It was _my_ fault. I'm sorry."

"It won't happen again." He dropped his hand. "Will it?"

"No, my Lord."

"Very well." He turned to Hermione. "And you?"

"Me?"

"Thank you."

"Th-thank me?" Hermione shook her head as if she thought she'd misheard.

"Yes. You've reminded me of the sort of man I never wanted to be, but had briefly allowed myself to become. You remind me of your mother in that way, when she wasn't much older than you are now. And for that reminder - both of those reminders - I thank you." He turned to glide from the room, but in the doorway, he paused and turned back. "Your hair, Bella. It's… different."

"Do you like it, my Lord?"

"I prefer it the natural way."

And then he was gone.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **9 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

The following day and night, even during her tutoring session, Hermione was still trying to make sense of the Dark Lord's apology. _Almost_ apology. Technically, he hadn't actually said he was sorry – but surely having admitted his regret was just as good, wasn't it? And thanking her, surely that was a massive step in the right direction, given the circumstances.

"You are distracted tonight." Severus Snape tapped the Charms textbook between them. He was sitting opposite her at the tiny desk, as usual, and she was supposed to be learning how to conjure a flock of live birds from midair.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I was thinking about… it doesn't matter." She halfheartedly flicked the stick he'd supplied her – a pseudo wand – and said the incantation. "Avis."

Nothing happened, of course.

"It must matter. You are not typically in another world during my instruction, and unless you are able to reground yourself in this one, there is no reason for me to stay." He rose.

She reached out and grabbed his wrist as her mother had done hers the day before, digging her short nails into the starched material of his sleeve.

"Please, sir, don't go. I'll focus. It's just…"

"Just…?"

"Do you think the Dark Lord loves my mother?"

"This, again?" He tried to pull away from her grasp. She held more tightly.

"He abuses her, doesn't he? And being sorry for doing it doesn't mean he hasn't done it, it doesn't make what he's done any less terrible. It doesn't mean he won't do it again."

"If you'd like to discuss your mother's relationship with… your… father… you shall have to do so with one or both of them, Miss Granger. Educating you on the particulars of their interpersonal relations is beyond the scope of my teaching abilities."

"Have you ever been in love, sir?"

"Have I… excuse me?" He tried again to pull away, but she held on as if for dear life. If he didn't return to his seat, she might cut off circulation to his hand entirely with that grip.

"What makes one person love another? And why would they continue to be in love if one treats the other as he does her? Have you been in love? Do you know what it's like to–"

"If you must know, yes, I know what it is to be in love. Specifically, I know what it is to love someone who does not love me in return," he snapped, surprising himself with his candor. "And you? You've been in love, Miss Granger?"

"I wish you'd stop calling me Miss Granger. Call me anything else. Hermione. Miss Black. I don't care. But whenever I hear the name 'Granger,' it makes my stomach twist and my heart hurt." She released his wrist. "My parents – the Grangers – they loved each other very much. My mum always said she'd go to bed at night thinking she couldn't possibly love my dad any more than she did in that moment, then she'd wake in the morning pleasantly surprised to find she loved him even more. As a little girl, I'd daydream about my birth parents, and wonder if they loved each other that much too. I hoped they did. And I think Mother does love the Dark Lord, she truly does, but he-"

"I doubt he's capable of returning her love." Snape, with a sigh, returned to his seat, and snapped shut the Charms book. It was clear they'd not be mastering Avis tonight. "She knows love as I have. The unrequited sort."

"I had my first kiss two years ago. Viktor Krum, from Durmstrang. It was… nice. I suppose. But I don't love him. I thought I might… I might fancy another boy… but…" She half-smiled, almost apologetically. "Unrequited. He didn't show the same interest in me."

"You are young."

"Some people fall in love when they're young. Some of my classmates have been having sex since the start of fifth year."

Severus' lip curled into a sardonic smile. "You are confusing two entirely different things, Miss Gr- Miss Black. Love and sex are as different as Transfiguration and Divination. Both are magic, but there the similarities end."

She screwed up her face as if studying a particularly difficult puzzle. She looked in his direction, but he got the impression she was looking more through him than to him. "But sir, what is sex without love?"

"One is physical, the other an emotion. Both satisfy similar but not identical needs. Sex is a rich chocolate cake. Love is a warm cup of tea. While it may be nice to pair the two together, you can enjoy one entirely independent of the other."

"But neither will truly satisfy your hunger."

"Perhaps not." His voice was low, the timbre deep. "Unless what you are hungering for is _either_ a warm cup of tea… _or_ rich chocolate cake."

She pondered this for a few moments, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

"Rich chocolate cake only makes you feel good in moderation, but the warm cup of tea–"

"The tea does not stay warm forever." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but was certain she could sense it anyway. "Eventually, the tea goes cold."

She placed her small, soft hand over his. "And then you make more."

He flipped his hand over but she did not pull back hers, so now their palms were touching, their fingertips against each other's inner wrists.

"You certainly _could_ make more…" he mused. " _Or_ you could put aside your mug and reach for the rich chocolate cake, knowing it's what you really need."

"And now I'm in the mood for cake," she whispered. "All this talk of chocolate."

"Did you say cake?"

The voice of Narcissa at the foot of the stairs surprised them both, but only Hermione physically reacted by flinched and sitting back, removing her hand from his. Severus was as stoic as ever, as if he'd known she was coming. He did not even turn around.

"Evening, Narcissa."

"I brought cake. It's chocolate. Hungry?"

"You… brought…" Hermione shook her head, trying to push out the dirty thought that had just crept unwelcomingly into it. She cleared her throat. "Why did you bring cake?"

"I assume Severus told you what today is?"

"He… no?"

"Oh! I heard you mention cake and assumed-"

"Narcissa." Now he stood to face her. She was just beyond the bars, a small silver tray in her hands on which she'd placed three mugs of tea and three slices of chocolate cake. "You shouldn't have."

"Of course I should have! You don't have a birthday every day, do you? Open the door for me. My wand is tucked into my hair."

He obeyed. She entered, placed the tray on Hermione's desk, and plucked her wand from her bun. She used it to transfigure the short footstool into a chair and settled herself beside Severus, across from Hermione.

"It's your birthday?" asked Hermione.

In response, he spoke not to her, but to Narcissa. "If your niece had remained solely in the Muggle world, she could have been a detective."

"No need to be sardonic, Severus," Narcissa chastised lightly. "Severus does not go out of his way to celebrate, but I didn't think it should go without mention. And he simply cannot get enough rich chocolate cake. Isn't that right, Severus?"

"I..." He glanced at Hermione. "I enjoy it on occasion."

"On occasion? You'd have it every night if you could," said Narcissa.

Hermione stifled a snicker.

The three then ate their cake and drank their tea and made small talk until both were gone.

"I'll walk you up, Severus," said Narcissa. She leaned across the table to kiss Hermione on the forehead. "Goodnight, dear."

"Goodnight, Auntie."

But Hermione was not ready for Severus to leave. She wanted to know more about his unrequited love. She wanted to better understand how her mother could be so devoted to the Dark Lord. She wanted to know if an "I regret it" constituted an apology, and if it did, did it even matter? Could one truly apologize away such actions? And, quite frankly, she wanted to know more about the difference between warm tea and rich chocolate cake… Both had hit the spot this evening, filling her up, satisfying both her hunger and her thirst… Perhaps it was best when the two were combined.

She couldn't say this, though, and so when he bid her goodnight she did the same to him, and watched them both go, wishing more than anything that she could be leaving the cellar with them. She would do anything to escape this cell, to be truly free, to experience at all times what she did during those too-short hours when her mother's charm let her out of the cell. She wanted to see the sun. She wanted to spend time with her friends. She wanted to try rich chocolate cake, and decide for herself whether or not the tea improved it.

"There's something wrong with you, Hermione," she scolded herself as their footsteps faded.

She blamed the book. The one her mother had left in her cell. The tawdry romance novel. She'd been reading too much of that drivel lately, too much about love, too much about falling in love. Too much about what people _do_ together when they're _in_ love.

"You're lonely, that's all. You have no friends, no boyfriend, no one to talk to."

As if insulted by this, Crookshanks mewed loudly. He stepped out from under the bed, shook his entire body, and hopped up into her desk for a cat treat (she gave him one every single night before bed).

"Sorry, Crookshanks." She scratched behind his ears, placed his Salmon Snack on the desk, and went in search of her pajamas. Ugh. Only the white cotton nightgown was clean. It wasn't her favorite, but it would have to do.

Before climbing back into bed, something shiny on the chair vacated by Professor Snape caught her eye.

It was a galleon. She picked it up. Something about this galleon was… off. There was a date etched into it: 12 January, and a time, 8pm.

"A Protean charm," she said aloud. "This is one of my galleons from the D.A.!"

Except… it wasn't. The work wasn't hers. It was shoddier. Not as flawless, not as well minted. Someone else was using her idea to communicate.

She set it on the desk. Should she hide it? Would he come looking for it? She opened the romance novel and tucked it between the pages. Surely he'd not look for it there.

Then she climbed under the covers and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.

She decided to read instead.

 _Chapter Fourteen: The Unexpected Guest_

 _Brigella threw back her head and moaned as his tongue delved between her folds..._

 **-0-0-0-**

 **9 January, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Amycus and Alecto Carrow had come to pay a visit, as had Theo Nott and the Rowles. They were all upstairs in the drawing room, chatting and drinking as the fire roared high with enchanted purple flames.

"Stay awhile," insisted Narcissa. "You don't want to spend what's left of your birthday alone in that dismal castle."

Frankly, he'd been content enough spending his birthday down in the cellar with Hermione – he'd spent far too much time as of late replaying old encounters with Nymphadora Tonks in his head, but with his current private pupil increasingly often substituted into the fantasy in place of the Metamorph. Given the way their conversation was headed, though, it was probably a blessing that Narcissa interrupted when she did.

Bellatrix was a bit tipsy, which was entertaining, as she became increasingly animated and quite funny with every sip, and Alecto made a pass at him, offering a birthday shag, which he might have taken her up on if his dirty mind was not fixated elsewhere. Some time shortly before eleven the men started a game of poker, so he joined in.

Eventually, though, Narcissa was ushering them out so she could get to sleep. She handed him a tiny square box, a gift to be opened later, and it was when he slipped it into his pocket he realized he'd lost the galleon.

 _Fuck._

That was his only clue as to what Draco was up to. He'd seen the boy poking at one with his wand in the library while whispering over a book from the Restricted Section, and he was determined to figure out the purpose, which is why he'd confronted the boy about something unrelated while in the hallway, and surreptitiously picked his pocket.

He needed that bloody galleon back.

He kissed Narcissa on the cheek politely, said goodnight, and headed for the door with the others, but ducked into the kitchen as they were getting their coats. No one seemed to notice, and when the hall had been silent long enough, he made his way quietly back to the cellar, hoping it had fallen out there and not out in the snow in Hogsmeade or along the Malfoy's walkway.

The lights were off and he assumed she was asleep, thus he took care to make no noise as he approached her cell, but once he'd reached the thick stone support beam just beyond the bars he caught sight of her, illuminated by the 'moonlight' of her enchanted window.

It was just as he'd caught her before, in a precarious, provocative position, only this time she was wearing a nightgown pushed up above her breasts with the blankets kicked nearly to the end of the bed, exposing her body from breasts to knees. She had one hand working over the outside of her knickers, massaging in small circles, and her breath was ragged, almost a pant.

Her breasts bounced a bit as her hips bucked, and he felt a tightening in his groin he knew ought to make him feel like a heel, but he didn't care. It was his birthday, and he was going to consider this little peep show his present – a gift she had no way of knowing she was giving to him, which made it all the more enticing.

She let out a little moan and the hand clutching the sheet, the one she was not using to rub herself, grasped her breast. She drew the pad of her thumb over the nipple, back and forth, back and forth, playing with the hardened pebble.

His trousers were far too tight. His hands went to the belt buckle.

She drew her first two fingers into her mouth and sucked, then returned them to her tit, pinching and skimming over the nipple. He grasped his hardened cock in his hand, slipping it free from his pants, and began to stroke.

He could smell her arousal, smell the dampened fabric of her knickers. She was using her middle finger now, flicking it up and down over her clit. His balls tightened. He resisted the urge to groan.

And then her hand was _in_ her knickers. She ground her pussy against her palm, fucking herself with her fingers, thrusting upward with her hips, as the nails of her other hand dug roughly into the soft flesh of her left breast. She whimpered with pleasure. He squeezed his cock harder, stroked himself faster, and envisioned himself coming all over those lovely, perky little tits while she fingered herself just for him.

 _This was bad._

While Tonks hadn't been his first fuck, she _had_ been his only student. He'd learned his lesson then, and he would not repeat it, not with another… not even a privately tutored… not even under these circums… _fuck…_ he clenched his teeth and grasped the side of the pillar. He was going to come and he wasn't sure he could keep quiet about it.

Thankfully, she cried out then, her hips suddenly going still, her head slamming back against the pillow as she hit her own peak, and with all the noise she'd made he was reasonably certain she didn't hear the low moan he couldn't hold back.

He used his wand and nonverbal magic to Scourgify the scene of his crime of voyeurism as she rearranged her nightgown and slipped under the covers. He would have to look for his galleon next time – tomorrow, perhaps. Soon. But not now. He waited until her breathing was deep and regular indicating she was asleep before turning to go. He'd taken only two steps, however, when he heard her speak.

"Happy birthday, Professor."

* * *

 **A/N:**

I apologize for the long and unexpected hiatus! In case anyone missed it in my profile or on Facebook, I had to take a break but am back on schedule now, so expect regular updates on Fridays and Tuesdays as usual. June overwhelmed me as final edits for my first novel were due at the same time as the rough draft of my second novel, and I have a picture book text due on Sunday too (which is more work than one might think!). Because that's my paid job, I had to put all fanfiction writing on the back burner until my deadlines were all met, which I apologize for. Thanks for sticking with it! I'll respond to reviews at the end of the next chapter – I would've done it here, but didn't want to make readers wait any longer than necessary for the update!

 **Thanks again!**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **Upcoming Chapters Hints -**

 **Chapter Thirteen:** Skipping ahead in time a bit, and flashing back to an important past Easter.

 **Chapter Fourteen:** Snape begins tutoring Hermione in the Dark Arts. She is... intrigued.


	14. LOVE IS

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

 **LOVE IS**

 **Good Friday, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Sometimes, she got the eerie feeling she was being watched.

It started the night of his birthday. Professor Snape's birthday. She was… _enjoying_ … herself, thinking about him, and she…

She…

Her face went hot remembering it.

She'd spoken aloud. She'd said "Happy birthday, Professor." In her fantasy, she'd been performing for him, in his office, on a long table while he watched, and then she almost got the feeling she really was being watched, and then she'd said "Professor…" right out loud, and then…

She'd heard something.

A footstep.

Just one.

Followed by a sharp intake of breath.

And then she'd frozen and listened and heard nothing more, but the feeling didn't go away. It started happening more and more, especially on nights he'd been there to tutor her, and she found she… _liked_ it.

And because she liked it, she started imagining it, imagining she was being watched by him, and touching herself, and getting off on it, and then, as she came down off her high, she could almost feel eyes on her that she thought might – _just might!_ – not be entirely in her imagination.

"I'm sorry, Crookshanks." She scratched behind his ears as he munched his Salmon Snack. "I'm losing my mind."

The fact was, fantasizing about shagging her ornery sardonic professor was a lot less dangerous than indulging in her other fantasies, which mostly revolved around escaping the cellar and killing the Dark Lord. Just two nights prior Snape had caught a glimpse of one of these and warned her it was not in her best interest to entertain such thoughts even when alone, as doing so would make them harder to control when they were not.

The Dark Lord hadn't continued her Occlumency lessons, which was disappointing but probably for the best. She hadn't seen much of him at all as of late, as a matter of fact. And it didn't seem her mother had either. As a result, Hermione was spending more and more time away from her little prison cell, under the watchful eye of her loving mother.

Her loving mother, and her rapidly crumbling aunt.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Good Friday, 1980**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

Narcissa couldn't sleep.

She hadn't slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch in over six weeks. Since it happened.

She just trembled, and cried, and jumped when the door slammed, and fell to her knees if someone entered a room behind her, and she told her husband this was caused by a "nervous condition" relating to pregnancy.

"You can't go on like this." Severus sat beside her in the massive king-sized bed, his back against the headboard, legs outstretched. She had her head in his lap, and he was stroking her hair. "You _have_ to tell Lucius."

"He won't understand," she whispered. "He'll hate me."

"It wasn't your fault. He'd have no reason to hate you."

"He'll hate them."

"They deserve to be hated."

"But he'll kill them. He'll go to Azkaban." She closed her eyes. Tears eked out. "I'll die if he goes to Azkaban."

"I can be with you when you tell him. I won't let him kill anyone." Lucius was his closest friend, and had been since taking him under his wing at Hogwarts. Narcissa, on the other hand, had been but a pleasant acquaintance until the incident. She was much more than that now.

Not that he was interested in her romantically.

No.

Even if he thought she'd stray from Lucius (which she wouldn't) he just couldn't see himself attracted to her in that way. She was too needy, too broken. Too snobbish, too prim. Too much a mother, a wife. Too good for him. And what was more, she relied on him, trusted him, looked to him for protection. While he hated the circumstances that brought them to this place, he couldn't help liking the way it made him feel. Being trusted, a protector. This was the relationship he'd long had with his recently departed mother.

Oh.

 _Fuck_.

She was a replacement for his mother.

(Best to keep this realization to himself.)

"I saw the midwife this morning, Severus. The baby is still growing at a normal rate, but she's worried my insomnia and stress and lack of nutrients may be detrimental to its health. She wants to see me once per week. She may want me on bedrest."

"Did you tell her _why_ you're not sleeping and not eating? Does she know the source of your stress?"

"No." She squeezed the top of his thigh, digging her nails into his leg. He could feel the dampness from her tears through his trousers.

"You should have. And Lucius deserves to-"

"No!" Her eyes, which were brown without her contacts, widened with panic. "Please don't tell Lucius. Please don't tell anyone. Only you can know. Only us. Never Lucius. Please."

"Tell Bellatrix, then." he urged. "Let _her_ kill them. You'll sleep better if they're dead, and you know _she_ won't go back to Azkaban – she's too careful. And the Dark Lord will protect her."

"Just stay with me, please, Severus. Stay the night with me. Tonight, only. Just so I can sleep. This is the last time I'll ask it of you, I promise."

(She'd made that promise every time thus far, and every time he agreed it would be the last time, and both knew it wouldn't. With Lucius traveling so much as of late, Severus was starting to feel as though he lived at Malfoy Manor.)

"When will Lucius return this time?"

"Monday, he said. He'll miss Easter. It couldn't be helped – he's on a mission for the Dark Lord." She sniffled. "He left this morning."

"Three nights alone, and you're only asking me to stay for one?"

"I don't want to ask too much of you." She hugged tighter to his leg. "For six weeks, I've been asking too much of you. I'm sorry. You must hate me."

"I do not hate you."

He wouldn't admit it, but he actually _liked_ sleeping beside her. It was the most intimate he'd ever been with a woman – though this was in an entirely non-sexual way – and it, too, reminded him of childhood with his mother. His father would drink, get angry, and beat her. He'd storm out, she'd cry, and Severus would curl up in bed with her and promise to protect her next time, even though he was small and weak and his father would think nothing of hurting him, too. His mother always said she felt safer with Severus by her side, though he couldn't see why. He'd never managed to protect her. And, that last time, he'd arrived too late.

Just as he'd been too late to save Narcissa.

"What if they come back?" she whimpered, her shoulders shaking, the tears coming harder now. She pressed a firm hand to her belly. Crying seemed to upset the baby within. She was showing now, much more so than she had been then. He slipped his hand under hers, stopping her from digging her nails into her skin of her swollen midsection.

"Severus? I asked, what if they come back?"

"If they come back…" he said, a muscle in his jaw tightening. " _I'll_ kill them."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Good Friday, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"Your cousin has decided not to return home for Easter holiday." Narcissa, her face stony, set a tea tray down on Hermione's desk.

"Is it Easter already?" asked Hermione. "When?"

"Sunday. Draco should have been home last Friday, but he refused. I asked if he could come only for the weekend and return to Hogwarts Monday. Again, he refused." She sat across from Hermione and lifted the small teapot, but her hands were shaking too hard to pour. Hermione gently took it from her and served them both herself. Bitterly, Narcissa added, "He doesn't love me."

"He loves you!" Hermione set down the pot and grasped both of her fragile aunt's freezing cold hands in hers. "Why would you think he doesn't love you?"

"I do not deserve to be loved by him. It's my fault he's… my fault…" Her lower lip trembled. "If I were a better mother…"

"You're a fine mother!" Hermione wasn't sure why it was so important to her to convince her aunt of this, especially considering that she'd felt quite the opposite of affinity for her in the past. Maybe she just couldn't stand seeing the woman cry.

"I'm the reason Lucius became a Death Eater. His father wasn't. Mine was. I wanted the prestige. I liked being… being elevated… in that way. And it meant lucrative financial deals, meeting more of the right people – the Malfoys, when Lucius and I first started courting, they were still in good standing in the wizarding community, but their gold was… dwindling. To say the least. Abraxas spent too much on his horses and whores and invested the rest unwisely. I thought following the Dark Lord would… would… I was selfish." She ducked her head. "And now my son… my only son… I cannot lose another child. I cannot go through that again."

"Lose another…?"

But Narcissa shook her head, pulled back her hands, stood, and hurried to the cell door.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she choked out. "I cannot have tea with you today."

Before Hermione could ask any questions, her aunt was hurrying to the stairs, and she was gone.

Hermione sighed and set to spreading clotted cream over her blueberry scone. The family was full of secrets, and she wanted to know them all. She wanted that more than she wanted Snape to catch her… doing what she'd been doing at night. And she wanted that very, very badly.

"Here, Crookshanks." She put a little cream on her spoon and let him lick it off. "You'll keep me sane, won't you? That's a good kitty."

"Mroww."

"Yes, but of course you're right," she answered, as if he'd asked a question. "If I'm talking to a cat as if he's a human, my sanity is already gone. Thank you for the reminder."

"Mroww?"

"More cream? Why not. I have plenty."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **The Day Before Easter, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus swore as blood trickled from his index finger. He hadn't been paying attention as he sliced the lacewing flies, and he'd severed the tip of his finger. This was not the first time, and he was perfectly capable of fixing it, but it would throb like a bloody paper cut for the whole rest of the day.

It was his own fault.

His mind hadn't been on the task at hand.

No, his mind had been in the cellar at Malfoy Manor, where just last night he'd hid in the shadows and watched Hermione Granger – _Hermione Black_ – give herself a spectacular looking orgasm while he got himself off hidden in the dark half behind the support beam.

If he didn't know better, he'd think she was doing it on purpose, putting on a show just for him, but she hadn't spoken again, not since "Happy birthday, Professor" nearly three months ago, so he wasn't certain she'd ever really known he was watching.

Which meant she had quite possibly been fantasizing about him watching. Or participating.

Which was even better.

But he hadn't fucked a pupil since Nymphadora Tonks, and he wasn't keen to start fucking one now… especially given her parents would surely react much more dangerously than Andromeda and Ted had. (Ted, as far as Severus was aware, never knew. And Andromeda, as far as Severus was aware, never told anyone... though a tiny part of him still wondered what she meant about being the most dangerous person he knew. Had that been all talk? Or was there more to the Black sister who married a Muggleborn?)

He sighed and used his wand to stop the bleeding and repair his throbbing finger.

She was of age, he reminded himself whenever he felt so much like a lech he was starting to make himself sick. She was an adult, legally, sure... but still, he couldn't be giving serious thought to seducing the little swot, the insufferable bint, the bastard daughter of the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Lestrange.

Though…

His lips twisted into a nasty smile.

Though he almost wouldn't mind suffering a Cruciatus or two if it meant getting an even bigger rise out of Bella than he had from Andromeda. He and Bellatrix hated each other, a hatred that went back decades, to the night she'd caught him in bed with Narcissa and got the entirely wrong idea… Accused him of taking advantage. Broken his nose. And never let up, even after Narcissa finally broke down and confessed the truth. But he suspected her hatred of him ran much deeper, into the well of jealousy. She wanted to be the Dark Lord's best and most faithful and most competent follower, and she abhorred the very idea of seeing her place usurped by the likes of him, a half-blood loser from a poor family.

He couldn't imagine anything that would stick in Bella's craw more than knowing he'd stuck it to her only child… so to speak.

His cock twitched in his trousers at the mere thought, and, knowing it was safest not to continue slicing in this condition, he opted to clean up his work space and retire to his sitting room with a glass of Firewhisky and the small Pensieve. Though he was no longer teaching the boy, he had yet to return it to Dumbledore's office.

He tapped the tip of his wand to his temple, removing the memory of Miss Granger – Black – and placed it into the swirling mist. He then entered the memory, glass in hand, and set back to enjoy the show.

For a brainy good-girl, she looked awfully good naked, didn't she? Yes, she did. His eyes and cock were in agreement. Even that birthmark appealed to him, the only blemish on otherwise perfect skin. And he couldn't deny she had other qualities as well. Headstrong. Academically gifted. Good with a wand. A great debater. Passionate.

He groaned.

Pensieve Hermione was shimmying out of her knickers. Present-day Severus had the night off, for a change.

He unbuckled his belt.

Might as well enjoy it.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **The Day Before Easter, 1997**

 **(the present)**

The day after Narcissa's outburst, Hermione was still full of questions, and as her mother hadn't come down the night before or that morning she had been unable to ask them. Thankfully, it was a tutoring night.

"Evening, Miss Granger."

"I've asked you repeatedly-"

"Miss Black. My apologies."

She wasn't sure why he insisted upon calling her Miss Granger. He always greeted her that way, every damn time. And every damn time, she bristled, glared, and reminded him not to. She knew he wasn't forgetting twice per week. He wasn't a forgetful man. No, he was doing it on purpose.

But why?

"You read the chapters for Charms, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy?"

"Of course, sir." She shifted on the bed, her hands folded on the desk in front of her. "But before we begin, could I ask you… a few questions?"

"About Charms, Transfiguration, or Arithmancy?"

"About my family. The Black family."

He sighed and settled across from her, folding his own hands, knowing full well he likely would not be able to - or willing to - answer her questions.

"What would you like to know?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix clutched at the sheets, her face buried in the pillow, and moaned. She couldn't remember when he'd last fucked her like this – hard and fast and rough and _good_ – and she intended to enjoy every second.

"Bella…" he groaned, and the sound of her name on his lips was nearly enough to plunge her over the edge. He gripped her hips and thrust, penetrating her pussy deeply from behind, and groaned her name again.

"My Lord…" She gasped as he fisted her hair and jerked back hard on her head.

"Mine… mine… mine…" He said it over and over, as if she needed the reminder – not that she could ever forget. She knew to whom she belonged. And though he was not the person he'd once been, she loved him, and would never even dream of doing this with anyone else.

"Yes… my Lord… yes… yours… Ohhh…" She bit down hard on the feather pillow.

"Are you on the potion?"

"I… what?" She couldn't recall the last time he'd asked her that. Before she'd conceived their daughter, surely. Long before.

"Potion."

"I… can be."

He groaned and pulled out, pushed her flat own onto the mattress, and finished across her lower back. She closed her eyes and sighed as he collapsed beside her, breathless.

"Am I to leave now?" she asked, not making any attempt to clean herself off before rolling onto her back. She stared up at the ceiling, hardly daring to glance in his direction. This was the first time they'd been together in a long time. He'd hardly touched her since leaving her bruised on New Year's.

"Excuse me?" he asked distractedly. "Leave, stay, it's of no consequence to me."

"But my Lord, what I mean is... Where do I stand?"

"Stand?" He pressed his fingertips to his temples. He had learned long ago that some women liked to discuss 'the relationship' after sex. It was the primary reason he'd stopped having sex with each of those women. Save for her.

"I do not know what you want from me, Bella."

"I want to know my place."

He let out a long exhale, as if at the end of his patience. His eyes were closed, but now hers were open, and fixated on his face. The handsome features she'd fallen for were long gone. His nose was slitted, like a snake. Under those twitching gray lids he hid the red eyes that replaced cinnamon brown. His lips – the lips that once trailed their way down her body, stopping in all his favorite places – were nearly nonexistent. His strong jawline, those high cheekbones, the unmarred, silky pale skin.

"You no longer find me attractive, Bella?"

"I… it's not that, my Lord." _Salazar's sins,_ she'd left her mind wide open, and of course he'd sauntered in. "It's just... I miss… I miss the man I… I still love you."

"Love." He scoffed. His eyes opened slowly, and made contact with hers. "Love is for the weak, my Bella. We've been through this. You are not weak. I do not reward weakness. I do not appreciate weakness. Therefore, I do not appreciate your love. Your loyalty, yes. Your adoration, even. But your love?"

"I can't help the way I feel." Her voice was small. She couldn't help remembering how differently he'd reacted the first time she'd used that four letter word with him, and the change made her want to cry, but she would not give him the satisfaction. "I am not weak, my Lord."

"You love the girl, don't you?"

"Our daughter?"

"Yes."

"Yes," she admitted. "And that makes me weak?"

"Doesn't it? You threw yourself in front of her when I intended for her to die – not knowing, of course, of her true identity - which I understand, given the circumstances, but it makes me wonder. Would you do the same if the one aiming a Killing Curse in her direction were another? Rodolphus? Dumbledore? Narcissa? Andromeda? Harry Potter? To whom would you sacrifice yourself to save her? Who would you kill to keep her alive?"

"I'd kill any of them – my husband, my sisters, Dumbledore, and especially Harry Potter."

"Me?"

"Y-you, my Lord?"

"Would you kill me, to save her?"

She smiled, a sad smile, but one nonetheless. "My Lord, surely you don't think me capable of killing you?"

"I think you capable of trying."

"Never, my Lord." She leaned close, to kiss his cheek, and he did not stop her from nuzzling her small nose against his cheek after drawing back her lips. "With all due respect, my Lord, love is not a weakness. Not for me. Love is what makes me strong. Love is what makes me strong enough to fight for you, to fight anyone – Harry Potter, Dumbledore, and yes, even my own sisters. I'm yours because I love you, and I have for well over two decades. My love for you is what kept me alive all those years in Azkaban. I would die for my daughter, yes, but I would also die for you. I would do _anything_ for you. I'd kill anyone for you. I'd kill myself if you asked it of me."

"I know you would." He pulled her to him, coaxing her cheek to his chest, his arm around her waist, and breathed in the scent of her hair - coconut today, which he preferred to the rosewater. "I know you would, my Bella, but I'd rather you not have to."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1977**

 **(twenty years ago)**

Her marriage was in shambles, but she didn't much care, save for feeling guilty over how much this sad fact hurt her parents. In particular, her mother.

"I want you to be happy together," said Druella Easter morning, smiling shakily across the breakfast table at her daughter as she stirred sugar into her tea. "We selected him for you because we thought you'd be a good match. You could have handsome, intelligent, pureblood children together. Don't you want children, Bella?"

"Not at the present," answered Bellatrix, though, honestly, she wouldn't mind pregnancy… if she were pregnant by the right man. She adjusted her pajama top and reached for a triangle of toast. She was starving, but her parents' house elves rarely fixed a decent breakfast on account of her mother's never-ending diet. She was therefore lucky to have a soft-boiled egg and grilled tomatoes, as much as she'd prefer her eggs fried and slathered with cheese, alongside several sausages.

"At least you've left that awful job." Druella's forced smile faded into a frown. "Having a daughter work in the back room at Borgin and Burke's – it was shameful. How long were you employed by those men?"

"Six years, Mother. But I left shortly before Christmas. You know that."

"You and Andromeda always were my rebellious ones, going your own way, refusing to obey the rules of polite society." Druella tucked into her own breakfast – tomatoes and the egg (hold the toast as she eschewed both butter and carbs). "You are a soldier for him now, aren't you? He's Marked you? It's what they say."

"It's the truth." She tugged at the sleeve of her gray cotton pajama top, ensuring the skull and serpent were completely covered. "But surely you don't want details?"

"I want you to be safe. I want you to stay home, with your husband, and give us grandchildren. I want you to make me a grandmother."

"Andromeda made you a grandmother."

"Andromeda is dead to us."

"I wish she weren't." Bellatrix sighed into her tea before taking a slow sip. "I wish she'd come to her senses, leave the Mudblood, and bring the Metamorph home to us. My having a job is one thing – her running off to marry and procreate with that abomination is quite another. But she could leave him. She could-"

"And then there's Narcissa…" interjected her mother, wanting to change the subject from her disowned daughter. "Narcissa is… a late bloomer."

Bellatrix chuckled.

"Narcissa? A late bloomer? If you mean she's yet to morph from girl to woman…" Bellatrix gestured toward her ample chest, which Narcissa lacked. "I agree. But Cissy's otherwise the ideal daughter, isn't she? Pretty and polite, sophisticated and well-mannered, docile and dignified." Bella snorted. Her mother sent her a sharp look. "Is she enjoying life as an married woman?"

"You haven't spoken with her?"

"Not much, as of late." Bellatrix shrugged apologetically. "I've been busy."

"She wants to have a baby. She's wanted one since the returned from their honeymoon. She and Lucius decorated a nursery and chosen names." Druella looked incredibly uncomfortable as she added, "She said they've been trying and trying, with no results."

The unwelcome image of that preening peacock Lucius Malfoy panting over her beautiful baby sister popped into Bella's head, making her lip curl. She tried not to think about it, though, at least not at the table with her mother, for her mother's Legilimency skills far surpassed her own, and though the Dark Lord had taught her much, she wasn't sure she could keep her mind closed with Occlumency against the one person in the world who knew her best. She shook her head to clear it of the mental image, and subsequently reminded herself that Cissy was hardly a little girl anymore, despite her flat chest. She was, after all, a married woman, nearly twenty-two years of age.

"She'll have one eventually," said Bellatrix. "A perfect grandchild from your perfect daughter."

"She _is_ sophisticated, eloquent, and well-mannered, isn't she?" asked Druella, sounding pleased. "Growing into such a beauty."

As if on cue, Narcissa flounced into the room then, wearing a silk purple dressing gown over a floor-length satin nightdress, her recently dyed-blonde hair pulled back with a lace ribbon. Satin, silk, and lace. Very… _Narcissa_. She smiled, twirled, and dropped dramatically into her chair, ever the attention-seeker.

"Good morning, Mother, dear! Morning Bella, darling. A glorious day, isn't it?"

"Did you sleep here?" asked Bellatrix. She'd gotten in so late the night before, the home had been dark and quiet, but one would think her mother would have mentioned.

"Yes! We both did, Lucius and I. We've been on holiday, only returned late yesterday, and came straight here rather than spending one night at the Manor and hurrying here early. His parents will be joining us here today. Won't that be lovely? Sharing the Easter meal together as a family?" She flashed her diamond ring in their direction. It was new, an anniversary upgrade from the one he'd given her on their wedding day, which she now wore on her opposite hand. "We had such a wonderful time in Milan! We brought back a number of souvenirs... though it'll be a few weeks before we'll know if the souvenir we want most made it back with us."

Bellatrix stuck out her tongue. Her mother slapped her hand. Narcissa giggled and placed a hand on her midsection. "We want at least three, we've decided. Actually, Lucius wants four or five, but I'm afraid my body won't fully recover if we have too many, and I am intent upon keeping my figure!"

"It's nice to know you have ambitions," said Bellatrix, rolling her eyes.

"My ambitions are every bit as valid as yours, shop girl!" said Narcissa. "We're prefer two girls and boy, though we wouldn't mind two boys and a girl... we'd even be happy with twins, one of each..."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1973**

 **(twenty-four years ago)**

"I just want to wear pretty dresses and throw pretty parties and kiss my pretty husband and make pretty babies," eighteen-year-old Narcissa had told Bellatrix a few days after her engagement to Lucius was made official. She'd dropped her voice then, glancing anxiously at the doorway in case Mother or Father were to walk in. "I've let him kiss me on several occasions, Bella. And… more. Not everything – we're waiting for our wedding night, of course – but more than just a kiss."

"Why did you say you're waiting two years before tying the knot, then?" Bellatrix had asked. "If you want so badly to 'more than kiss' him?"

Narcissa had scowled, an unfamiliar expression for her face.

"If you must know, it's because making Ministry connections is important to my future husband, and he therefore wants to focus on his two-year apprenticeship with the Minister before entering into marriage."

There had been a long pause, then Bella had burst out laughing.

"What's the real reason, Cissy?"

Narcissa's scowl deepened. She avoided eye contact. Finally, dejected, she confessed: "The Malfoy family is having a bit of trouble with money. Lucius' father has made a series of bad investments in the last . few years. Lucius is afraid if we marry now, his father will take the dowry, spend it, and leave us with nothing. He may even lose the Manor, with the way he's been gambling! He's already lost their summer home and the London flat - one in a card game, the other to settle a debt. If Mother and Father find out, they may try to nullify the union on the grounds that they've been misled. But if we wait, receive the sizable dowry, and give Lucius time to make his own connections, he can invest the funds properly and grow the fortune back to what it once was."

"Why two years? Most Ministry apprenticeships like that last one."

"Lucius wants to be twice as prepared."

Again, Bellatrix laughed. Narcissa pouted.

"Fine. Lucius asked the Minister to take him on for two years because the old man is dying… Dragon Pox. Lucius reckons he hasn't got much more than a year, two at most. I hope it's quick."

"So he doesn't suffer?"

"So I can marry his son!" She continued in a whine. "I'm already eighteen, Bella and in two years I'll be twenty! You were married at eighteen and Andromeda at nineteen. I'll nearly be an old maid! People are going to start to wonder whether there's something wrong with me!"

"You mean there isn't something wrong with you?" Bella had asked teasingly. Narcissa was not amused.

"All that's wrong with me is that in two years I'll be a twenty-year-old unwed virgin, waiting for her future father-in-law to take his last breath so I can give my Lucius all of the babies he could ever want. We've chosen four names already, two for boys, two for girls, but if the children aren't too unmanageable – with the help of house elves, of course – we're open to having one or two more on top of that!"

"You're mad!" Bellatrix had looked to her sister with revulsion. "Four, five, six children? Trust me, the world doesn't need that many little Malfoys."

"Once we're married, Bella, I'm going to devote myself entirely to hosting lavish parties and creating beautiful babies and wearing only the most fashionable ensembles. The Prophet's Society page will devote an entire column just to me, complete with pictures in which I'll pretend I don't wish to be photographed, but ones that'll just happen to capture my best side!" She'd frozen then, trying to look both caught by surprise and perfectly posed. Bella had laughed.

"I'm not joking! I'll be the envy of every pureblood wife in our circle and you're going to be so bloody jealous it'll blind you."

"Please," said Bella, rolling her eyes. "Please, blind me."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1977**

 **(twenty years ago)**

"Mother," said Bellatrix, setting down her tea so she could fiddle with her hands while she spoke. "Mother… has there ever been a divorce in the Black or Rosier families?"

Before Druella – who looked scandalized by the mere thought – could formulate a response, Cygnus entered. He was humming and grinning, an extra spring in his step. Bella half-expected him to twirl as her sister had.

"I've just received word from the Dark Lord!" he announced jovially to his wife and daughters. "He's chosen _us_ to host him for Easter this year! Avery's going to tip his cauldron! That pompous old prat was certain it would be his turn, given his recent success at the Ministry. Sorry, Avery - it takes more than the passing of minor legislation to impress Lord Voldemort!" Cygnus chuckled gleefully, delighting both in the circumstances and in his own gall to use the Dark Lord's name. "Such an honor! I don't know that anyone's ever had him twice in a row before!"

Bellatrix felt her cheeks go slightly pink. _He'd_ had _her_ twice in a row just last night, which is why she hadn't slipped back into her parents' home until well after three in the morning, and the reason he intended to dine with them for Easter was because her in-laws, the Lestranges, would be there as well. The Dark Lord had become increasingly possessive of her since they'd gone from dangerous flirtation and voyeurism to actual sex and nights spent intertwined. He'd made it clear he wanted to be there today to keep watch over her husband, to be certain nothing was going on between them, even though he said he believed her when she swore the man hadn't so much as held her hand in over a year.

Still, this was indeed an honor, and she was happy that her father was so excited about it.

"What fortunate people we are, Druella," he said, leaning down to kiss his wife's temple. "Our elder daughter is the wife of one of the Dark Lord's best soldiers, our younger daughter married into one of the best old-line families in all of Europe, and ours was deemed the ideal home at which to enjoy Easter dinner for a second year running."

"Congratulations, Daddy," said Narcissa sweetly. "You know, my Lucius has devoted himself to the Dark Lord too, just as Rodolphus did. He's even received the Dark Mark, you know, and he has a special mask and robes, and he's considered one of the Dark Lord's inner circle! That mean he's an important soldier too!"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Cissy had always been the "Me too! What about me?" type of little sister. Every time her older sisters received a compliment or a new dress or a special toy as a child, there was little Narcissa in her pigtail braids, asking, "What about me, Mummy? Am I pretty too, Daddy?"

"Of course, he is." Cygnus leaned down to kiss his youngest on the top of her head, then straightened and cleared his throat. "Er… Bella… your husband and his family _will_ be here this afternoon, won't they? I assured the Dark Lord they'd attend."

"Yes, Father. Rodolphus and I are committed to the repair of our marriage." She hated uttering the words, and knew they sounded flat, but it was what the Dark Lord had told her to say. He also said he expected her to resume cohabitation with her husband soon too, before the summer solstice, as people were starting to talk. It was for her own protection, he said. They'd been living apart for over a year, people had known about their separation for over eight months, and this was too long. They had to either divorce or reconcile – and the Dark Lord did not want anyone asking questions as they would in the event of a divorce.

 _"_ _I am confident he'll not touch you," the Dark Lord had said. "Surely, you can sleep platonically beside the man. Or in a bedroom down the hall."_

Surely, she could. But that wasn't what she wanted.

"Happy Easter!" said Cygnus, making his way around the table to kiss Bella good morning, snagging the last triangle of buttered toast as he moved. "A time for rebirth! Let's make the most of it."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Easter dinner was a formal affair. They ate in the dining room, Narcissa and Bellatrix, the Dark Lord, and Hermione. Afterward, Narcissa excused herself to go visit Grandfather, but Bella stayed with her daughter. She encouraged the girl to change into her swimming costume, and to the pool they went.

Bellatrix was a good swimmer, fast, agile in the water. No surprise, thought Hermione, given how well she seemed to move on land, at least in battle. Hermione, despite having had lessons as a little girl, was a bit more awkward. She doggy-paddled rather than breaststroked, and she couldn't stay under without air as long as her mother.

"I'll race you from that end to this and back," said Bellatrix, smiling coyly. "If you win, I'll teach you to perform a new charm, any charm, and let you try your hand at it with my wand. But if I win, you'll spend the rest of the evening calling me Mummy and telling me how much you love me."

Hermione knew there was little chance of her winning, but she wanted to learn a new charm, to hold a wand, and would give anything for the opportunity, thus she agreed.

Bellatrix beat to her the opposite end of the pool. Hermione pushed off hard against the side and backstroked as fast as her arms and legs could managed... and, by some miracle, she reached the starting point - the finish - first.

There was only one problem.

"You let me win! I could see you out of the corner of my eye. You slowed down halfway across!"

"I got tired," pouted Bellatrix, but there was a teasing glean in her eye. "You won."

"I can't accept the title of winner if I didn't earn it! Let's try again. I'm ready now. Same terms."

"Silly girl, accept that you've already won." Bellatrix splashed her, laughing. "All that pride? You look very much like a Gryffindor right now."

"I _am_ a Gryffindor!" Hermione splashed her back. "Let's do it again, and you won't let me win!"

"But you want to win, don't you?"

"Of course! But what good is winning if you hand me the win?"

Bellatrix beamed proudly. "Not good enough, apparently. Alright, then. Three... two... one... go!"

This time, Hermione lost by several strokes.

"Slytherins take the opportunities handed to them," said Bellatrix, floating on her back, grinning up at the enchanted ceiling. "Gryffindors miss out because they're too focused on nonsense like whether the win was really deserved. And here I was so looking forward to teaching you a new charm, too."

"New contest," said Hermione, splashing her mother again, making her flounder and laugh. "There are five principal exemptions to Gamp's law. The first to list all five wins, same terms as the previous contest."

"Too easy," said Bellatrix. "Go!"

In rapid unison, they exclaimed, "ONE: YOU CANNOT CREATE FOOD FROM NOTHING. TWO: YOU CANNOT CREATE MONEY-"

It was almost a tie, but then Hermione splashed Bellatrix again at the start of number five, which made her sneeze, handing Hermione the win.

"That was cheating!" sputtered Bellatrix.

"Was it?" Hermione's eyes twinkled mischievously. "I don't recall a 'no splashing the competition' rule, therefore, I was well within my right to-"

"Well played." Bellatrix swelled with pride. "And very Slytherin of you, girl. Come, let's dry off. Which charm do you think you'd like to learn?"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Easter, 1997**

 **(the present)**

It was not a tutoring night, but he went to Malfoy Manor after his Hogwarts rounds all the same. He slipped silently into the dungeon, hoping he'd find her in the same position in which he'd found her two days prior. To his disappointment, though, she was in bed fully dressed, reading.

He almost turned and left, but he caught the title of the book and paused.

Magick Moste Evile.

Where had she gotten that?

He knew there was a copy in Hogwarts' Restricted Section, and he owned a copy himself, and he'd seen it on Dumbledore's shelves, but it was an incredibly rare book. A potentially dangerous book. One very few students would be allowed to peruse until seventh year, and even then, many would be denied.

What was she so intently studying?

He took several moments to breathe slowly, ensuring any excitement that may have been growing in his pants over the prospect of again finding her in a compromising position had died away, then cleared his throat and stepped from the shadows.

"Miss Black. You're still awake."

"Professor Snape!" She lowered the book, not looking too put out over having been interrupted. "But tonight's not…"

"I know. I was… I had free time." _Fuck,_ that sounded stupid. "I wanted to speak with you, but it looks as though you're busy."

"Not too busy." She placed a bookmark in and closed the book, which let out a mournful wail. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

(And... now he had to make something up. Thankfully, as a spy, he was highly adept at lying. Surely, he could think of something.)

"You asked me the other night about your family. I told you I could not answer most of your questions."

"Yes." Disappointment clouded over her face, but was quickly replaced by hope. "Have you… changed your mind, then?"

"I have indeed. I think there are a few things you deserve to know."

(Damn it. In truth, there was nothing he currently felt she deserved to know, and this was not the direction in which he wanted to take the conversation. But how to back out now?)

"Come in, please." She smiled. "I'll get up to open the door for you, but as you know…"

"Of course." He let himself in and took his usual place in the desk chair opposite her. "I will not give you more details about your aunt's situation, as I told you Friday. That is for her and her alone to share, should she ever wish to. But you asked about your grandparents."

"Yes." She leaned forward, enraptured.

His inky black eyes met her cinnamon brown ones and he noticed, for the first time, flecks of gold dancing in the irises. He had to look away.

"Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. They had an arranged marriage, as was common, and an extended courtship, but public record shows Bellatrix was born only seven months later. The first of three girls."

"I know all this, sir."

"Madness ran in the Black family, but not in that of the Rosiers, which could be why your mother and her sisters have fared better than many of their kin. Infertility, however, plagued the Rosier line, which has nearly died out. Your mother's cousin, Evan, was in my year at Hogwarts. Moody killed him for resisting arrest. He never even stood trial. There was minor outrage from our circle over this, but as so many had been disgraced or imprisoned and shortly thereafter many others were pretending to have been Imperiused, the grumblings were kept quiet."

"Did Moody have cause to kill him, sir? Was there no other way?"

"There is always another way." Severus' eyes darkened. Evan Rosier had been a genuine friend, one of the few in his year who ever made an attempt to stick up for him when he was being tormented by Black and Potter. Most looked the other way, or even laughed, including those from his own bloody house. But not Evan."

"Who was my grandmother? Was she… is my mother much like her? Did she support the Dark Lord?"

"She supported keeping her family elevated above other families, much like Narcissa. She valued wealth and image, was fiercely protective of her daughters, and considered blood-status more important than many other Sacred Twenty-Eight families did by that point. Many of them had started marrying half-bloods to keep their lines alive without resorting to incest. The Blacks were not among them – and while Druella was not closely related to Cygnus as the mutt's parents were closely related, she thought nothing of having Andromeda betrothed to her own disowned brother's son from his first marriage, which made them first cousins."

"I don't recall Sirius and my mother having more first cousins. Was that on the tapestry?"

"No, but it wouldn't be, would it? Being the Rosier side. Druella's brother, Darwin, had one son with Bettina Wilkes, who died in childbirth. He then remarried a Muggleborn witch and was subsequently disowned. His pureblood son grew up hating his father and father's new family, and joined the Death Eaters at age seventeen, going by the name Wilkes. He was killed by Moody on the same night as Evan. When he received the Dark Mark, Cygnus and Druella accepted him back into the family, and offered him their daughter, who was then perhaps nine or ten, in a show of good faith – and to get a hold of the considerable amount of gold Bettina left her son – though of course he'd have to wait for Andromeda to come of age."

"That's archaic!" Hermione leapt up. "Promising their prepubescent child to her first cousin just to prove he's back in the family, all because he joined the Death Eaters, turning his back on his own father, and had an inheritance coming to him?"

Severus chuckled and gestured for her to sit. "Archaic? Yes. Uncommon? No. Many arranged marriages were more business transactions than anything else. He was ideal for their daughter – pureblood, wealthy, a follower of the Dark Lord… What more could parents ask for?"

"They could ask that their daughter be allowed to marry the man she loves!"

"Love so rarely factors into these discussions, Miss Grang... Black. Do you think your mother loved your stepfather?"

"I tried to ask her about it once."

"I'll tell you – she did not. It is clear to anyone who has ever seen the two interact that she does not love him, and never has. They have worked well together, and that's where it ends. Love is impractical. Nothing good comes from love."

"Everything good comes from love!" argued Hermione. "I was reading a chapter about love potions in this book before you entered." She tapped the cover of Magick Moste Evile. "It was theorized in the middle ages that a baby conceived via love potion, that is to say, one created without having come from love, would then be unable to _feel_ love! That child would grow into what the Muggles now call sociopaths." She made an odd face, as if confused by her own words, and amended, "I mean, what people call sociopaths. Parents who do not love each other create babies who cannot love – they may think they can, but it's a surface feeling, unreal, a confusing mask for another emotion. Unreal. Which means, if Andromeda and her cousin had married and had a baby…"

"You aren't worried about the baby that would have come from Andromeda and her cousin. You're asking about yourself." He furrowed his brow. "Miss Black, are you worried that _you_ are unable to love? You were not, as far as I am aware, conceived thanks to Amortentia, or anything similar."

"But if my parents didn't love each other, what does that mean for me, sir? Am I… incapable… of love? Am I… am I inherently… am I like them? More and more as of late I see the similarities between myself and my mother. We have so much in common, we truly do, and she says she loves me, and I know I should love her, but… but what if I can't? What if I can't truly… what if I… and… and… so much value is placed on blood, not just blood status, but what it means to be… to be… to be… My entire family, save for Andromeda and Sirius, sees him as a savior, a hero, a man worth following, and he's… he's my _father_ , and… and what if I'm as much like him as I am like my mother? What if… and if he didn't love her… if he cannot love… then what does it mean for me?" She threw herself back on the bed. "Oh, I'm not making any sense! Never mind. You don't understand."

But he _did_ understand. And, finally, here it was: the real reason for her many months of related questions. She wanted to know more about this mad, terrifying, evil family into which she'd been born. She was questioning what it meant to be of their blood, to have been created by a probable sociopath and his most loyal victim. She was struggling to love her mother, struggling to remember what it felt like to love the Grangers, and doubting her ability to love at all.

"Miss Black," he said softly. He stood and moved to her side, urging her to sit up. "Hermione. Look at me."

She wouldn't.

He took her chin gently in his hand and turned her face toward his.

"Your mother truly loves you. I genuinely believe she does; about this, I would not lie to you. And whether you can learn to love her does not speak to your capacity to love, but to your ability to let go of all you once knew and believed in favor of being absorbed into the family into which you were born. This would not be so difficult for you if not for how much you loved the parents who adopted you, the friends you made at Hogwarts, the professors you admired most." He smiled slightly. "I am referring, of course, to Trelawney, Binns, and Umbridge."

She giggled softly. Her eyes did not leave his.

"I was not born from love, but I assure you, I am capable of _feeling_ it, as loath as I am to admit as much even to myself. There is a difference between being created thanks to a potion that causes a facsimile of the emotion, and being created by two parents able to love but not in love with each other."

"But what if my father is unable to feel love?" she whispered, tipping her chin up as his face drew closer.

"Do you suppose he was conceived thanks to the potion Amortentia?"

"I..." Hermione bit her lip. "I hadn't thought of that, specifically, but something Dumbledore once said..."

"Think of that, then," said Severus. "Specifically."

"Alright..." Amortentia. She needed to know more about it. Clearly. And more about her father's parents. "But what does all that mean for…?"

"Your mother loves him, and she loves you. And you are certainly capable of loving others. I think you know that."

"And you… you said you're capable as well, sir, but loath to admit it? Why is that? If you _can_ feel it, why wouldn't you _want_ to?"

"Rich chocolate cake is far less dangerous than warm tea, for some of us." His voice was low, rumbling. He could tell she had goosebumps. He liked it.

"But sir, why choose one if you could have both?"

His lips were too close to hers. Close enough that they could almost touch, if only he'd angle his nose slightly to the right… if only she were a little taller… if only…

"Am I interrupting?"

Severus leapt to his feet, straightened his frock coat, and went completely expressionless. Hermione, on the other hand, looked guilty as sin even though they'd merely been talking.

"Not at all, Narcissa," he said. "Did you have a pleasant Easter?"

"Since you've asked, no, I did not. My son remained at Hogwarts, set upon completing his task, my sister got snippy and called me an 'irritating cunt,' and my father twice called me by my mother's name, then cried after I told him Andromeda would not be visiting, as she was disowned twenty-five years ago, and, on my way down here, I slipped and fell on my backside on the stairs; I'll be bruised tomorrow. So all in all, it was not my best Easter. Oh, and did I mention that my husband is still in prison?" She glared at Hermione as if this were _her_ fault. "I've lived without him for nearly a year and, frankly, I'm not sure how much longer I can manage without killing myself... or someone else."

"You've been drinking," said Severus. "Whisky." He sighed. Wine made her weepy and pathetic, while firewhisky made her, well… _fiery._ It brought out a bitter, angry, dangerous and unattractive side of her he liked much less than the side of her that got pissed, asked him to bed despite having no desire to sleep with him, then sobbed with relief into his arms upon rejection.

"Let me walk you upstairs." He made his way to the edge of the bars, glancing quickly over his shoulder at his pupil. "Read chapter fourteen of that one," he said, and she knew he meant Magick Moste Evile. "We'll discuss it on Tuesday, after your lessons."

"Let's kill her," grumbled Narcissa as he led her toward the stairs. "My niece. Let's kill her right now."

"We're not killing her," he said, sounding bored.

"Fine. Bella, then. Bella would kill us if we killed the girl, so let's kill Bella."

"If I didn't think you'd leave me alone to take the fall, I might take you up on that one." He chuckled, then groaned as Narcissa collapsed against his side. "Narcissa, you can't lean all of your weight on… you… don't… please… Oh."

She'd passed out.

Hermione watched as Severus Snape lifted her aunt Narcissa into his arms and rounded the corner for the stairs.

It was not the ideal family she'd been born into.

But despite all she'd said to the Potions Master tonight, she couldn't help thinking… she might, just might, love her mother a little.

And that thought terrified her more than the Dark Lord.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Please forgive typos. I haven't had much time to proofread this one, and I wanted to get it out tonight (while it's still Tuesday for ten more minutes) because I won't have time to work on it tomorrow, then Chapter Fourteen will be up on Friday.

The info about Wilkes and Rosier comes from Goblet of Fire.

 **-AL**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen:** Severus begins officially tutoring Hermione in the (sexy) Dark Arts, and she learns why he joined the Death Eaters.

 **Chapter Fifteen:** Nearly reaching the Dark Lord's one-year deadline, desperate Bella finally shows Hermione Narcissa's worst memory.


	15. STRATEGY

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:**

 **STRATEGY**

 **Mid-April, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"Mother?"

Hermione was seated in her favorite overstuffed chair in the library, the comfiest one, with Magick Moste Evile in her lap. She'd already read it cover-to-cover, but as she'd sped through (afraid it might be taken away) she hadn't fully absorbed all it had to teach her. Now she was re-reading from the beginning, slowly. She'd just reached the part in which the text glossed over Horcruxes.

"Yes, love?"

Bellatrix, too, was seated in one of the soft chairs, but the book in her hands was about a vicious, lonely, wealthy count who abducts a young girl with the intention of forcing her to be his wife and give him an heir, only to fall in love with her and hate himself for becoming her prison warden. She just reached the part in which he let the girl go, hoping beyond hope she'd come back to him of her own free will.

"What's a Horcrux? This book doesn't say. I mean, why mention them at all if all the author wanted to write was that he shouldn't write about them? That's odd, isn't it?"

Bellatrix immediately looked on edge, and Hermione feared she should have kept her mouth closed. But they'd been getting on so well as of late, she'd started to feel like she could ask – or tell – the woman anything. Like a real mother.

"Horcruxes are… dangerous magic. I don't even know how to create one and I studied the Dark Arts extensively before my second incarceration. I…" She glanced anxiously toward the closed door and dropped her voice. "I don't want you to speak of them in the presence of your… of the Dark Lord. This is more important than you can possibly imagine. Understand? Don't think about them when he's in the room. Don't even breathe the word."

"Yes, Mother." Hermione looked confused and disappointed.

"But I could teach you something else," Bellatrix added hurriedly, wanting only to make her happy. "How to conjure and control Fiendfyre, perhaps? Or the Imperius Curse?"

"You would teach me the Imperius Curse?"

"I would help you to understand the magic behind it," said Bellatrix carefully. "Though I've been forbidden from actually giving you any _practical_ lessons when it comes to Unforgivables, no one has said anything about explaining the… the mindset and particulars."

"Honestly, I don't know that I'm ready to learn that one, yet. The thought of controlling someone's mind?" She shivered. "Seems invasive."

"No more so than Legilimency."

"But you said the Dark Lord would resume teaching me Occlumency so I can protect myself against anyone using Legilimency. Can the same be done with the Imperius Curse?"

"There are ways to fight it, yes." Bellatrix puffed out her chest and jutted up her chin. "I learned how to throw it off completely when I was not much older than you are now. The Dark Lord himself taught me in 1971. He said I was an incredibly fast learner and that I had a strong mind. You have a strong mind too, love. I could teach you."

"I think I'd like that." Though Hermione wasn't keen on letting her mother use the Imperius Curse on her, as surely she'd have to if they were to practice, the thought of being able to learn to stop anyone else from using her own mind against her was incredibly appealing. She wondered whether Professor Snape was able to throw it off as well… and whether he'd help her get more practical experience.

"This weekend," said Bellatrix. "The Dark Lord will be away. I'll teach you then."

"Thank you," said Hermione. "I'm looking forward to it."

After several seconds of silence, Bellatrix picked up her book, so Hermione did the same. But after just a few minutes, Hermione set hers down again.

"Mother? Why does the Dark Lord hate Muggleborns? Really?"

"What?" Bella dog-eared the page of her book and set it on the small table to her left, beside the antique gas lamp. "Haven't we been through this?"

"I know he believes they've stolen magic, but this book says that's impossible, one either has to be born with magic or not born with it. Squibs and Muggles are not born with it. Wizards – pureblood, half-blood, and Muggleborn – _are_ born with it. One could steal a wand, I suppose, but not _magic_ , not what it is to _be_ magic. Magic is innate. It says it here in chapter four."

"It is our goal as defenders of magic to keep the bloodlines pure, Hermione." Bellatrix moved to the chair closest to her daughter, a hard-backed leather one with gold studding. "The Muggles are clever, and they _are_ stealing from us. They steal our blood to make their babies – their women seduce our men and their men rape our women, creating half-bloods, who are less powerful than purebloods, easier to control. And they do it for generation after generation, making us weaker with each, as they strengthen their own magic in an attempt to take over and eradicate us completely! They want what we have, and by mating with them, we're giving them what they want, bit by bit. There is no greater sin."

The door opened then, and in walked the Dark Lord himself, with Nagini slithering at his heels.

"Ah, but you're mother is, of course, correct."

Hermione flinched as he came closer and closer, not stopping until his knees were touching hers.

"It's been happening for a millennia, my girl," he said, standing with hands clasped, staring sternly down at Hermione in her chair, much like a father who'd just caught his daughter sneaking in after breaking curfew. She shrunk into her seat, hoping he hadn't heard her ask about Horcruxes a few minutes before.

"My Lord!" Bellatrix jumped to her feet, but he motioned for her to return to her chair. His expression was one of mild scolding and deep determination, not anger.

"You need to learn the past of our people. Hasn't Severus been teaching you History of Magic? The war between purebloods and Muggleborns essentially began when Godric Gryffindor and Helga Hufflepuff insisted upon educating _all_ students, including Muggleborns and half-bloods, to the fury of Salazar Slytherin and despite the many concerns of Rowena Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff wanted to let Squibs in, too, but that was disbanded after the one-year experimental program went horribly wrong."

"Wrong, how?"

He did not quite answer. "Squibs, unlike those Muggleborn thieves of magic, are to be pitied, not hated. They are the result of dwindled magic, recessive genes being passed down from non-magic overseers who subjugated our people, who made us create half-bloods with them, who hunted us for centuries. _Hunted_ , Hermione. Like animals."

The Dark Lord sneered, curling his hand into a fist, and Hermione felt her entire body tense as a result.

"We should have fought then," said Bellatrix, her fiery eyes fixated on him. "We should have gone to war hundreds of years ago! Instead, we agreed to the Statute of Secrecy, and went underground. We've been paying the price ever since."

The Dark Lord nodded, relaxed his fist, and reached out to gently stroke her face with his forefinger before turning back to their daughter.

"The Muggles, they wanted to use our magic when it benefitted them, but as soon as they saw how much power we could have, as soon as they worried we'd rise up and not allow ourselves to be used any longer, they started killing us, burning us at the stake, hanging us, drowning us, beheading us, pressing us to death under rocks and boards. And because we'd become so spread out and afraid to identify ourselves to each other, we were unable to join together and fight back. We were at their mercy."

"Yes. You must understand…" Bellatrix leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees, studying Hermione carefully. "While some witches knew lifesaving charms – the Bubblehead for drowning, and protective spells for when being burned – far too often, witches and, to a lesser extent, wizards, simply _died_. We were powerless, improperly educated. Afraid. At their mercy, as your father said. We could not form communities, because it was impossible to know who was a witch, wo was just accused, and who was looking to turn witches over to be tried and imprisoned and killed. The Muggles therefore made us afraid of each other, afraid of ourselves, and ashamed of our own abilities. They used and abused us and when they could use and abuse us no longer, they slaughtered us. It was no way to live."

"But there are some who have forgotten those days, or who do not care, or think it will be different this time around, despite all history has taught us," said the Dark Lord, clucking his tongue. "Those like Dumbledore, who is driven not by the desire to do what is right, but by guilt over having previously done what was wrong. They believe if we play nicely with our oppressors, we can live in harmony. But a life of oppression is not harmonious, Hermione. A life of oppression is not what we deserve. We must therefore rise up, fight back, and take back what is ours, all that our people have fought and died for over these last thousand years. We must therefore regain control of the Ministry, and of the schools, and of the wizarding world, all for the greater good. It is not about bigotry or malice, Hermione. It is about self-preservation."

"What does Dumbledore have to feel guilty for?" whispered Hermione, genuinely enraptured by the Dark Lord for the first time in her life, as he was – while terrible to look upon – truly a great orator. Terrible, but great.

"I believe it is time we share with her the book, Bella. The one that tells the truth about the wonderful Albus Dumbledore."

"No, my Lord, please! She's not ready," argued Bellatrix, shaking her head vehemently, pleadingly. "Our daughter-"

"Is more than ready. She's a bright girl capable of discerning fact from fiction, myth from reality, and using the information she has absorbed to form her own opinions. Why you did not share it with her months ago, I do not understand."

"I… she…"

"You have been protecting her feelings. This is why love makes you weak, my Bella."

She looked chastened, but then he chuckled.

"You know it as well as I, don't you? Because you love her, you do not wish to hurt her, even though you know, in the long run, she needs to know."

"But my Lord…"

"All this year, you have known she has continued to hold an affinity for that Mudblood-loving hypocrite Dumbledore, and for her well-meaning but ignorant schoolmates, and you did not wish to upset her. Just as you've refused to show her what happened to your sister at the filthy hands of Black, Potter, and Longbottom, even though Severus supplied us with that Pensieve I requested a fortnight ago."

"She's certainly not ready for _that_!" Bella's heavy-lidded eyes went round as saucers. "I was nearly thirty when I first saw Cissy's memory, and _I_ was not ready for it! How can you expect a little girl–"

"She is _not_ a little girl, Bella. She is _our_ child, but she is not _a_ child. She is a woman, closer to eighteen than seventeen, nearly the age you were when you wed. She is able to make her own decisions, and she needs to be treated accordingly."

Bellatrix ducked her head, shot a wounded look at Hermione through the curtain of hair falling across her face, and sniffled.

"With all due respect, all of this will only serve to hurt her, my Lord."

"Yes, as I've already said, in the short-term, it may hurt her. But in the long term, which is more important, it is what she needs to know."

Hermione watched her parents, fascinated, as they discussed her as if she wasn't even in the room. The Grangers used to do the same thing, especially when she was little and odd and they thought she wasn't paying attention. On the contrary, she was _always_ paying attention.

"Hermione, you are a seeker of knowledge, are you not? A 'veritable know-it-all,' according to Severus. A girl who genuinely likes to learn, who is frustrated by what she cannot figure out, who prefers to see both sides of an issue and work out the truth for herself, am I correct in this assessment?"

"Yes, my Lord." She felt a bit like she was betraying her mother by saying so, but she also knew better than to lie. He would see right through it.

"Clearly, your mother has been keeping secrets from you. A number of secrets, as she wants to spare you the pain of knowing what you should have known immediately upon your arrival. She sought to first gain your trust, then your love…" He shuddered slightly when he said 'love,' but took a breath and moved on. "She thought it would be easier for you to hear the truth after you'd been distanced from those who once revered, but in doing this, she has essentially denied you agency, which has resulted only in lingering loyalties to those who do not deserve your admiration. I ought to punish her most severely for this."

"No, please!" Hermione jumped up and moved her body between that of the Dark Lord and her mother, holding out her arms the way Snape had when shielding the children from the werewolf Lupin. "She was only doing what she thought was best for me. That's what a mother does! Please, sir, please don't punish her for trying to protect me. She doesn't deserve your wrath. If you're going to hurt anyone, hurt me!"

"Hermione!" whispered Bellatrix, horrified, trying to move her aside. "Dear girl, no!"

"Is it possible?" he asked, his voice rising slightly with amused curiosity as he gestured for them to halt their movements. "Do you love your mother, Hermione? Do you love her as she loves you? How… touching." He inclined his head slightly, looking bemused. "You remind me of Severus as a young lad. He used to step in between his father and mother, but all that earned him were bruises. The same will not happen here today. Do not worry."

The Dark Lord took her by the arm and guided her back toward her comfy chair. She was looking a tad dazed, but she did not pull away.

"I have no desire to hurt your mother for this, as I fully understand her reasoning, however misguided. Though I appreciate how quick you were to leap to her defense. That shows loyalty, a valued Slytherin trait, and it pleases me to see it from you."

"Th… thank you, sir." Hermione, at his urging, sat back down. She folded her hands in her lap, like a student awaiting further instruction. Which, in a way, she was. She tried not to dwell on what he'd said about "a valued Slytherin trait."

"You want to support and defend her, but you also want to know these secrets she's kept, don't you?" The Dark Lord's nearly nonexistent lips twisted into something that resembled a smile. "I can sense that you do. You are curious. Intelligent. Clever. And mature. You are ready."

"I…" She glanced at Bellatrix, whose expression was unreadable, then met his eyes. "Yes, my Lord. Whatever it is, I believe I _am_ ready."

"It has been nearly a year since you arrived, young lady."

"Yes, sir."

"Nearly a year…" He glanced toward Bellatrix. "I think your mother is too close to the situation to properly educate you on this. Rather, I'll have Severus do it. He shall present you with the book tonight and be here regularly throughout the next few weeks to answer any questions you may have…" He reached out to tuck her bushy brown hair behind her ear, a gesture that she thought was meant to seem fatherly but just gave her a chill. "I've also asked that he begin teaching you more of the Dark Arts. Not _defense_ , but the arts themselves, as we've previously discussed. You have far more potential than you are currently reaching, and I would like to see your wand returned to you soon."

Her heart leapt. _Finally, after all this time?_

"You deserve it. You are brilliant, hard-working, and, I'm told, magically talented. Not to mention, an undeniable joy for your mother." He leaned forward and pressed those cold, nearly nonexistent lips to Hermione's forehead. "I know little of what it means to be a father, as I did not have one myself, but I know you are capable of making me proud."

"Yes, my Lord. I promise, I will."

He nodded to Bellatrix, who looked so in love with him she might explode into a cloud of candied hearts, and swept from the library with Nagini at his heels, as always.

Hermione settled back in her chair, her feet tucked under her bum, and hugged Magick Moste Evile to her chest, thinking hard. When she was sure he was no longer in earshot, she spoke.

"He's a confusing man, Mother."

"He _is_ a paradox," agreed Bellatrix, summoning over her own book. "But he is much, much more than a man."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-April 1979**

 **(eighteen years ago)**

Narcissa could not stop vomiting. Just when she thought it was over, her stomach would constrict again, and the contents would lurch, and she'd either expel bile or dry heave, as there was no food left to throw up.

"So." Bellatrix sat upon the lid of the closed toiled seat, studying her younger sister. "This is second-trimester pregnancy?"

"It shouldn't be." Exhausted and bleary-eyed, Narcissa sat back, resting against the wall. "But it's all I've wanted for the last four years, which means I can't complain, can I?"

"Of course you can." Bellatrix settled a hand over her abdomen, which was not yet showing signs of being with-child, as she was two months behind her sister. "I would."

Bellatrix had recently moved into the home of her newlywed sister, the day Narcissa and Lucius returned from an extended second honeymoon. The Dark Lord had ordered her there and more or less placed her under house arrest until the birth of their child.

 _"_ _You want to keep it, fine," he'd said coolly. "But we'll not risk someone being able to weaponized it, or_ you _, against me. Thus no one can know you're expecting, and no one can know where you are, save for immediate family. And they shall take the Unbreakable Vow to ensure their silence."_

It wasn't so bad. Bellatrix had been living at her parents' country house since she left her husband for the second time, and here she felt freer than there, as Narcissa and Lucius didn't ask as many questions. They didn't have time to ask questions. They were busy snogging each other all over the Manor, every time his mother left the room.

 _"You've been married four years and h_ _e got you in 'a family way' months ago," Bella had snapped at Narcissa one morning, after walking in on them fooling around on the dining room table (thankfully not yet completely undressed). "How could you possibly still be_ that _interested in each other?"_

 _"_ _You wouldn't understand," Narcissa had replied dreamily. Then she'd rushed to the loo to get sick, as she did every day after breakfast, while Lucius held her hair._

"I've been considering a divorce from Rodolphus." Bellatrix watched her sister carefully, but the reaction was minimal. Narcissa merely raised her eyebrows and nodded wearily.

"I imagine he's unhappy about your current… state."

"Quite."

"Whose is it, Bella?" Narcissa pulled herself to her feet and steadied herself on the sink to rinse out her mouth. As she put paste on her toothbrush, she asked, "Is it _his?_ The Dark Lord?"

"Did Mother tell you?"

"No. But one day last week, I couldn't sleep. I was in the nursery, readying it for the baby, when I heard a noise in the hall. I peeked through the door to see him leaving your bedroom. It was perhaps four, five in the morning. Even if the hour didn't indicate it, I could tell by his smile... you're sleeping with him."

"Yes." Bellatrix followed Narcissa from the bathroom into the attached master bedroom. "Are you…? Mother was…" She cleared her throat. "She was revolted, I think."

"Do you love him?" Narcissa climbed into bed even though she'd only been up for a couple of hours, and motioned for Bellatrix to slip under the covers beside her. Lucius was away on yet another mission for the Dark Lord, and she already missed him terribly. "Bella? I asked whether you love him."

"Yes, I do. Very much." Bella slipped her arm around her sister's expanded midsection, and wondered how long it would take for her own to protrude as much. Cissy had gone from not showing at all to needing maternity wear to cover that half-watermelon smuggled under her corset seemingly overnight. Bella hoped her own progression would be less pronounced. While she was not as vain as Cissy (no one was), she liked to look _good._

"Are you content to be having his baby?"

Bellatrix smiled, closed her eyes, and cuddled closer. "More than I can express."

"Then I'm happy for you." Narcissa closed her eyes, too. The baby seemed to be stealing away all of her energy. She was up to two or three naps per day. "Our little ones will be so close in age, but in different years at Hogwarts."

"They'll be best friends from the start."

Narcissa grinned. "I hope so. And I hope we both have boys."

"Not me." Bellatrix wrinkled her nose. "I hope we both have girls."

"Either way, I hope they're as close as we are. I hope all of our children are close. I hope someday, our children are the best of friends."

"Me too." Bellatrix kissed her sister's cheek. "And I hope, someday, Andromeda comes back to us."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-April, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione, wearing her school uniform blouse and skirt, awaited Professor Snape's arrival even more eagerly than usual – and she usually waited pretty eagerly. She leapt up as he approached, and practically hovered, wringing her hands, beside the bars as he let himself in.

"Did you bring me the book?" she asked.

"Very well, Miss Black, thank you for asking. And you?" he replied, making her blush.

"I'm sorry, sir. Good evening. How are you?"

"I've just said."

"I'm fine, too. But…" She paused long enough for him to take his seat. "But I would be even better if you could confirm for me that you brought with you a certain book…"

"Unfogging the Future?"

"I don't think so."

"Hogwarts: A History?"

"One of my favorites, but no."

"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?"

"I doubt very much that-"

"Ah, then you're referring to Magick Moste Evile?"

She was growing impatient, an annoyance exacerbated by the smirk on his face.

"You know I've already got that one."

"Then perhaps this will interest you." He pulled from his pocket a small cheaply laced together bundle of page, tapped it with his hand, and handed the ill-bound book to her. "It has not yet been published, but I was fortunate enough to obtain a copy before it went into final edits. I shared it with the Dark Lord, who has asked that I now pass it along to you for the purpose of education and discussion."

Printed on the front were the words

THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

And under that,

ADVANCED READERS COPY:

NOT FOR SALE

"Life and lies?" Hermione raised both eyebrows. She sat across from her professor and ran her fingertips over the soft cover.

"I've been fact-checking what I can," he said. "It's written in a most sensational way – I suspect your friend Rita Skeeter is a contributor – but thus far, I've not found a single inaccuracy."

"Should I start reading now?"

"Only if you would like to skip tonight's lessons, as I'll certainly not sit here and watch you read when I could be back at Hogwarts, grading papers for the job that pays me."

"I… suppose it can wait, then." She set it aside, but doing so was almost painful, for the curiosity that had been eating away at her for hours now threatened to consume her whole.

"The Dark Lord wants me to expand your education in regards to the Dark Arts. He has asked me to teach you Occlumency – he tells me you have a natural aptitude for it – and, much to the chagrin of his mistress, he's also asked that I help you learn how to fight back against the Imperius Curse."

"But Mother said _she_ was going to-"

"Would you like to argue, or would you like to learn?"

She bit her lip then forced a smile. "To learn, please, sir."

"Let us start with something simple. Where is the galleon?"

"The… galleon, sir?"

"Do not insult us both by playing coy, Miss Black. You are a terrible actress and I am a man of little patience. I know I dropped a galleon here a few months ago and that you've been hiding it since…" He stared directly into her eyes. (She wished she'd already mastered Occlumency.) "It's between the pages of Magick Moste Evile. A stupid place to hide it, as your mother or the Dark Lord might have decided to take that book back at any time for any reason."

She scowled, but reached for the book, slipped out the galleon, and handed it to him.

"It's a Protean charm," she said. "I used it on fake galleons to communicate with members of Dumbledore's Army. This one looks like mine, but it isn't. The work isn't as precise. It has changed three times since I… since you left it behind. But only to reveal nonsense."

He looked it over carefully. The date had been replaced with the letters VN-SH-CBNT. He was certain he knew who was behind it, but not what it meant.

"Fascinating," he said dryly, as if it were anything but. "In the future, keep in mind that I do not teach thieves, and-"

"Thieves? You're calling _me_ a _thief_? No, sir! I am no thief! _You_ left it behind! You dropped it on that chair, there! And I retrieved it, that's all." Her eyes flashed. "Your carelessness is not my concern, Professor."

"Carelessness?"

"When you realized it was missing, you should have come back for it, and I'd have gladly returned it, as I am no thief. But you didn't come back, did you? You did't mention it for some three months!" She was positively radiating fury. "Sir."

"On the contrary." His upper lip curled into something of a dangerous smirk. "I returned for it only to find you… _occupied…_ in a most personal way. And, being the gentleman that I am, seeing no need to embarrass you, I departed rather than interrupt." He stood and stooped, leaning over the desk, his face too close to hers, his eyes boring into her very soul. "Or don't you remember how you spent that particular evening, upon my departure? In case you need a memory refresher, it was my birthday."

"Your… birthday?" Her cheeks, which were already flush and hot, went even redder as her fury faded into pure mortification. She did indeed remember what she'd been doing the night of his birthday… when she thought she heard a footstep… the sharp intake of breath… and she'd spoken aloud, hadn't she?

Hadn't she wished him a happy birthday?

"Salazar's sins!" she moaned, her mother's words creeping in yet again, as she covered her face in her hands.

"Let us commence with the lesson." He Accioed over her Arithmancy textbook and opened to the first page of the most recently assigned chapter. "Any questions on the last homework assignment?"

"I… no, sir." Still tomato-red and unable to meet his gaze, she reached into her bedside table for the rolled parchment on which she'd written a short essay.

"Tonight we shall start with Arithmancy, continue with the translation of Ancient Runes, and then finish with a discussion about the Protean Charm – seventh year work that you impressively managed to master in your fifth. After that, Occlumency."

"Yes, sir." She passed him the parchment, blinking back tears, and tried to clear her mind. It was bad enough what he'd seen her do – she didn't need him knowing what she thought, too.

Nearly three hours later, all of her regular work was complete, and she'd practiced clearing her mind and keeping him out of it, she'd demonstrated how she'd use the Protean Charm on fake galleons like the one now in Snape's possession to communicate dates and times with members of the D.A.

"Someone has copied your work," he said, examining the galleon closely, wondering if she would figure out what he already knew. "Someone magically talented, but a degree less capable than you."

"I've given it a lot of thought, sir, and I don't want to sound like Harry when I say this, but I think it was Malfoy."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's been in Azkaban since last May."

" _Draco_ Malfoy. Who else could, or would? I think he's using them to communicate with someone, perhaps related to that task he's supposed to be doing for the Dark Lord, the one Auntie Cissy is so upset about?"

"Perhaps," said Severus, hiding a smile. She truly was a bright girl. "Tonight, after I leave – unless you have other activities in mind – I assume you'll begin reading the book about Dumbledore."

Her face went pink again at the mention of 'other activities,' but she nodded.

"Before you do, I want you to remember that there are three sides to every story."

"His, hers, and the truth?" She smiled. "My mother – my… mum… Mrs. Granger – she used to say that after she and father had an argument."

"Indeed. Thus while it's possible that every word in this book is entirely accurate, it is also possible that there is another, equally valid side. For example... did Dumbledore tell you and Potter that I was indebted to his father for having saved my life?"

"He… may have mentioned something."

"It was your dearly departed cousin Sirius who attempted to have me killed at the hands – or, more accurately, paws and claws – of his friend Lupin. Potter stopped me from entering the Shrieking Shack where a fully transformed and barely controlled werewolf was hidden. He told Dumbledore he did it because, while he did not like me, he did not wish for me to die. Dumbledore praised and rewarded him, informed me that I owed the man my life, and, to add insult to injury, had him pinned Head Boy. This is all true. But it is also true that letting Lupin kill me would have resulted in his friend's execution and both his expulsion and that of Black – the latter may have even gone to prison a few years early – hence I've never believed Potter's motivations were anything but self-centered, as was everything he did. Therefore, if you were to listen to both my side and Dumbledore's, you would get the same facts, but presented in two entirely different ways, one in which Potter is an altruistic hero and in the other, a self-serving arse."

"How could Sirius have done that?" Hermione was horrified. "I know he hated you, but to _kill_ you - and to make _his friend_ a murderer – how could he be so cold?"

"You're asking me how a man who brutally raped his own pregnant cousin could be so cold as to set up his friend to kill his enemy?"

Her stomach twisted. She tried not to think about what had happened to her aunt, but the scene as she imagined it had crept into her nightmares on more than one occasion.

"Is that why you joined the Death Eaters, sir? To get revenge on Black and Potter?"

"Yes… and no." He tugged at the sleeve of his frock coat. "We are all looking for a place to belong, aren't we, Miss Granger?"

"Black."

"Miss Black. Hermione." He moved to her side of the desk, settling himself beside her on the bed, both facing the bars. "We all want to know where we come from, who we are, why we are the way we are – don't we? We want to know who our people are, and how to find them. To be accepted and valued. Didn't you feel you'd found your people early on with Potter and Weasley and Longbottom and the girls in your House? Did you hit it off on day one?"

"Actually…" She leaned her shoulder against his arm and was surprised when he did not pull away. "They weren't nice to me at first. Harry was alright, and Neville too, but Ron made fun of me, as did the other girls in Gryffindor. I'd been looking so forward to going to Hogwarts, to… to finding my people, as you put it… to embracing myself as a witch because I'd always known I was different from other children in school and finally I knew why. But then it was just the same. The others excluded me and mocked me…" She smoothed her uniform skirt, remembering all the nights she'd spent sobbing herself to sleep for the first two months of her first year.

"But you became friends eventually, clearly."

"The night… the night I became friends with Harry and Ron, they'd been… They had... I was..."

"I was looking forward to Hogwarts to the same reason," he interrupted, sensing this was what she needed to hear. "I had only one friend as a young boy, one girl who did not treat me like a social pariah. From age five on, I had been the neighborhood punching bag. I would go to the playground to escape my father's domestic violence only to be pummeled by boys like Black and Potter simply for being small and odd and alone."

"I understand. The girls in primary school made fun of me too, for everything from my nose to my teeth to the way I raised my hand to the good marks I received. Sometimes they stuck gum in my hair or spilled juice on my homework."

"Lucius took me under his wing. Later, the Death Eaters not only allowed me to join, they invited me, recruited me. They saw value in me that no one else ever had."

"Halloween, first year. I overheard Ron telling Harry what a nightmare I am so I fled to the girls' room and cried. That's where the troll found me, and Harry saved my life, but Ron…"

"You kept them from getting into too much trouble. Did they – in particular, Mr. Weasley – deserve your quick defense?"

"He'd said earlier, 'No wonder she hasn't got any friends.'" Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes, and didn't bother to wipe them away when they spilled down her cheeks. "Harry and Ron were the first, though. My first friends, I mean."

"Lily and Lucius were my first," confessed Severus, who rarely said the woman's name aloud. "And after Lily sided with James…"

"I think I understand, sir. I… I don't think I could ever be a Death Eater, not knowing what they… what they do, and have done, and stand for… but…"

"But you know what it is to be desperate to belong?"

"Yes."

Severus tapped the cover of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

"As does he. May be worth keeping in mind while you read."

She nodded.

"Your mother, too."

"My mother?"

She looked up at him, questioning and bright and full of concern. He couldn't help thinking her wet cheeks and watery brown eyes somehow made her even more attractive than when she was on her back, half-undressed, but he quickly suppressed the thought.

"Ask your mother about all the friends she had at Hogwarts… You may find you have even more in common with her than you realize."

"I will, sir. Thank you. And thank you for… for not embarrassing me… on your birthday. I'm sorry I… acted… that way."

"You're sorry for acting like a perfectly normal young woman when you thought you were alone?" He shook his head. "No apology necessary. But I am sorry for having pretended not to notice the enlargement of your teeth. I saw you as somewhat like her – like my former friend – the sidekick of another Potter, and I was cruel."

"It's fine."

"It isn't."

They were silent for what felt like a long time, simply sitting beside each other, each lost in their own thoughts. She was the first to speak.

"When will you start teaching me to fight the Imperius Curse, sir?"

"Soon enough." He stood, stretched, and resisted the urge to press his lips to one of her damp, ruddy cheeks, choosing instead to squeeze her shoulder and step away. "Goodnight, Miss Black."

"Please, sir… call me Hermione."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **Mid-April, 1997**

 **(the present)**

It was somewhere after midnight when the Dark Lord finally crawled into bed. His mistress, having been invited earlier, was already there. He slipped his hand up the front of her nightgown and ran the pad of his thumb over her nipple. She, despite being half-asleep, smiled.

"My Lord?"

"My Bella."

He flicked his tongue just under her ear, then sucked the lobe briefly into his mouth, then nipped at it, and finally ran his tongue along the shell of her ear. She sighed contentedly, her smile growing, before he pressed his mouth against hers. He rolled off far too quickly for her liking, but she was happy when he pulled her with him, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder.

"You smell of coconut again tonight."

"I ran out of the rosewater shampoo."

He breathed deeply. "I like both, but this one better."

"I'm glad you can still smell, considering." She was teasing, and he chortled.

"Despite what my appearance might lead you to believe, my sense of smell seems to have been heightened since my return. For example, though you are buried under several blankets and wearing both pajama bottoms and knickers, I am very much aware of how wet you are for me."

She straddled his leg, grinding her pussy against his thigh. "You know I love it when you do that to my ears."

"Mm... yes..." He grabbed her arse and captured her mouth with his, but before things could progress beyond a snog, he'd pulled away again.

"Did Severus give the book to the girl tonight?"

"He did, my Lord."

"Good. Having him discuss it with her will make her feel as though the information she's gleaning is less biased than if you or I shared it, and his position as professor will help as well – she's used to being given nothing but factual information from him. He'll turn her away from that Muggle-loving old fool with ease, and all we have to do is pretend to be saddened by the fact that she is to be saddled with this knowledge." He ran his fingertips up and down her arm, from her delicate hand, which was settled in the center of his hairless chest, to her soft shoulder. "You were brilliant this afternoon. I nearly applauded when she leapt up to protect you from me."

"She has come a long way, even though I've not pushed her as much as you may have liked, my Lord."

"She has indeed, and I am pleased, but the one year deadline is nearly upon us and she is not nearly where I need her to be. Having Severus share the book with her should help. Showing her Narcissa's memory should help more."

"Oh. That." Bellatrix squirmed. He tightened his grip around her waist.

"Yes, that. She cares for your sister, I can sense it. She feels for her, and views her as someone in need of protection, too. Seeing with her own eyes what those monsters did – nothing you or I could tell her about their side would turn her against Black, Potter, and Longbottom more, and if she feels revulsion upon hearing their names, she will start to look upon Potter's and Longbottom's sons the same way. We will not push this, however. We will stress to her that neither boy knows of the atrocities committed by his father. She will pity them, but be repulsed to know they strive to be like those men, and then we set to convincing her that they would act the same given the same opportunities. She needs to view their entire side as more of the same. Murderers, rapists, villains. She needs to see our side as protectors, defenders. We will convince her of the importance of blood purity along the way, of course, but ultimately that is not where we shall gain headway with her. She has spent too much of her life in the company of Muggles.

"Muggles haven't always been nice to her, my Lord. I was eavesdropping on her with Snape tonight. The children in her primary school were cruel to her. But she still loves the couple who adopted her."

"We won't turn her against them, then. That may be too much to ask. But…"

"But?"

"But what if she were to believe her parents were Squibs? That they, too, could have been magic, but had their magic stolen? And that's the reason they were drawn to her in that orphanage, though even they did not know it. Have we looked into the lineage of Mr. and Mrs. Granger?"

"No, but I will starting tomorrow. And if I cannot find anything…"

"You'll find something." He smirked confidently. "Find something, or create something."

"You are incredible, my Lord. The brightest and cleverest wizard to ever live."

"I know, my Bella." He tilted up her chin and gently kissed her lips. "And you are the only woman worthy of me."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter, and especially those who reviewed! Look for the next on Tuesday. I hope you're still enjoying!

Note that the Advanced Readers Copy is of the book written by Rita Skeeter that is released shortly after Dumbledore's death. I figure she must have had at least most of it already written before he died, as there would've not been enough time afterward to pull it all together and get it printed, not even for a witch like her, which is why I decided to introduce it three months early.

The galleon will be better explained later, for those who asked.

 **-AL**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen:** Nearly at the Dark Lord's one-year deadline, desperate Bella finally shows Hermione Narcissa's worst memory.

 **Chapter Sixteen:** Snape makes one terrible mistake after another… but can't seem to stop himself. (Don't hate me for this one!)


	16. NARCISSA'S WORST MEMORY

**A/N:**

 **TW - sexual assault**

 **This chapter includes Narcissa's memory of being attacked (the section in italics). It may be triggering and/or too much for some readers. I did not try to be overly graphic, but didn't gloss over either so be forewarned, you may wish to skim or skip some parts if that can be detrimental for you to read.**

 **Thank you.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN:**

 **NARCISSA'S WORST MEMORY**

 **1 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix awoke in the bed of her lover for the ninth morning in a row. He was reading, she could hear the pages of the Prophet rustling, but she didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want the moment to end.

"I know you're awake." He turned to another page. "I can hear you thinking."

She should've known she couldn't keep anything from him. "What are you reading about? Anything interesting in there?"

"An article discrediting Emmeline Vance. It's been nearly a year since you took care of her for me, and some are still calling for investigations and prosecution. Naturally I do not wish to see you tied to her murder, not yet. I've had one of our contacts at the Daily Prophet begin a subtle smear campaign, suggesting she may have had enemies unrelated to my followers or her work with the Order of the Phoenix."

"Everyone knows it was you who killed Amelia Bones, my Lord." She sat up, her back against the headboard, and quickly skimmed the page. "You're taking over the Ministry and we have our supporters at the paper. All you need now is control of Hogwarts and to put in place a Minister of our choice. In the interim, why _not_ let it be known that I handled Emmeline?" She pouted. "I want people to know I haven't lost my touch."

"Not yet, my Bella." He chuckled. "You'll get credit for your work when the time is right."

She sighed. "Yes, my Lord."

"Now, now, none of that." He gently pinched her puffed out bottom lip. "Right now, all I want you working on is that daughter of ours. Has she seen Narcissa's memory?"

"Not yet, my Lord."

"You have the Pensieve?"

"Yes."

"And you have her memory, and the one from Severus too?"

She fidgeted. "Yes."

"And yet…?"

"My Lord, please, she-"

"If you say she's just a girl or a child or anything in line with that nonsense, I'll cast you out for good, Bellatrix." His voice took on a sudden harshness, one that made her stomach twist. "I've grown tired of hearing it. I thought I demanded a fortnight ago-"

"Yes, my Lord, you did." She ducked her head, letting the wild curls obscure her face from him, but sighed with resignation. "I'll show her today."

"Today?"

"Today."

"That's my good girl." He kissed her briefly before returning his attention back to the newspaper. "Summon a house-elf, would you, Bella? I'm in the mood for a fry-up."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape sat at his desk, staring down at the small mountain of papers he needed to grade, and entirely unable and unwilling to give them a single second's read. He was tired. Tired of teaching dunderheads, tired of tutoring Hermione, tired of trying to suss out Draco's plans, tired of being begged by Narcissa for information, tired of Owls from Andromeda, tired of following the Dark Lord's orders, tired of making secret plans with Dumbledore, tired of spying for both masters… tired of his whole damn double life.

The night before, he'd been at headquarters for a meeting of the Order. Once again they peppered him for information about the Death Eaters and once again he had to field questions about Hermione.

"For fuck's sake, Nymphadora," he'd snapped at one point, uncharacteristically slipping into the use foul language. "If she were alive, I'd tell you, but she's _dead_. Tell your mother to leave me the fuck alone!"

Afterward, members had split up and headed to different parts of the old house, or to their own homes. Not ready to return to Hogwarts, Severus helped himself to a drink in the room in which the Black family tapestry was located.

No baby under Bellatrix's name. No baby listed under the spot where Andromeda's had been. And only Draco connected to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

He wondered whether another name had ever been there, and if it had, whether it had been removed by magic. And if names could be so easily removed by magic, why blast off those of traitors like Sirius, when they could be erased entirely? To make a point, he suspected. Leave a lasting impression.

"Thinking about something?" Nymphadora had entered, surprising him.

And, surprising him further, not five minutes later he was seated on the couch with his trousers undone, on the receiving end of the best blow job he'd had in years.

"You're a terrible person," he said as he gathered the homework papers and bound them, intended to set them aside until tomorrow. He was, indeed, a terrible person, but for a whole host of reasons far worse than for letting himself get sucked off by a woman who clearly had issues of her own, including obvious depression over having been rejected by the werewolf she genuinely loved.

He set the papers in a drawer and removed the latest letter from Andromeda.

 _SS-_

 _I know she's alive. I think you know it, too._

 _What is your Dark Lord's plan for her?_

 _Is she safe? Healthy?_

 _Has she been thoroughly corrupted?_

 _I don't trust you any more than you trust me –_

 _And I don't expect you to share with me the details._

 _I only want to know that she's safe._

 _-AT_

That fucking nuisance of a woman.

How could she possibly know?

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1967**

 **(thirty years ago)**

On Andromeda's fourteenth birthday, she put on her prettiest dress, had her hair straightened and re-curled by a house-elf, carefully applied makeup, and then sat primly in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of her guests.

She was supposed to be at Hogwarts. Most students did not leave Hogwarts during the school year, except on holiday, but her parents insisted all three Black sisters come home for the weekend for this. This birthday, they said, was special.

It was at this birthday they'd be introducing her to the man they intended her to marry.

Andromeda was not looking forward to the meeting, for she didn't see happiness with this man in her future, and she wasn't keen to rush through her school days.

Narcissa, almost twelve, was excited. Excited to meet her sister's eventual husband and to daydream about her own. Her future had been set years ago, and in September, Lucius Malfoy would join her at Hogwarts.

Sixteen-year-old Bellatrix was glad to come home, but only because it meant leaving the castle for a few days. While she would've hated missing a class, the weekends were nothing but a reminder of how unpopular and friendless she was, as other students went together to Hogsmeade or snogged in the astronomy tower or gathered in the Quidditch stands. She usually went to the library, found a couple of books, and holed up wherever she could hide for long periods, undetected. There was a secret passage behind a mirror on the fourth floor, with a secret room large enough for fifteen or twenty to sit comfortably cross-legged on the floor, but she never invited anyone else in, not even her sisters. She'd followed it a few times, all the way to Hogsmeade, where it led directly into the musky dark cellar beneath the Herbology shop, Dogweed and Deathcap. The shop smelled awful and she couldn't find the way out from the cellar, so she avoided going farther than the room, especially as the tunnel looked ready to collapse in on itself at any time.

She started bringing things there. A chair stolen from her Common Room, candles from an empty classroom, a plush throw blanket bought by Owl Order. She hid snacks there, Cauldron Cakes and Chocolate Frogs and Ice Mice and a dozen different kinds of taffy to satisfy her sweet tooth, plus bottles of butterbeer and pumpkin juice and gillywater and even one bottle of Firewhisky, which she'd yet to try but liked having in her possession. There were books stacked everywhere, some bought, some borrowed, some stolen. Textbooks and tomes and delicious fiction both magic and Muggle, through which she could travel to new lands, meet new friends, and pretend she was anyone else. It was her home away from home – it was the only place at Hogwarts she truly felt comfortable… the only place she truly felt she was not alone.

Bellatrix had been hiding in her secret place when Slughorn came to tell the Black sisters they'd be leaving the next morning. By the time she returned to her Common Room, her sisters were frantic.

"We couldn't find you anywhere!" cried Cissy, throwing her arms around Bellatrix as if they'd been separated for months without word.

"We combed the entire castle and grounds," said Andromeda, eyeing her with suspicion. "It was as if you'd gone... underground."

"Don't be silly, Meda."

"Then where were you?"

"Out."

Now it was Sunday morning, and the girls were sitting primly and properly on the couch, across from their anxious mother, while father greeted someone in the hall.

"I hope he's handsome!" whispered little Narcissa. Despite being only a First Year and already betrothed, she was a bit boy-crazy.

"I hope he's intelligent," whispered Bellatrix. Her own future husband was only marginally good-looking, but he'd gotten top marks at school, which had to count for something.

"I hope he's kind," whispered Andromeda, whose brown eyes were huge and fearful and unblinking. "I hope he'll treat me kindly. With kindness."

"Shush!" their mother scolded. "I don't want them to hear you."

A moment later, a couple entered the parlor with a lanky, thin-faced boy between them. He was younger than Rodolphus by several years, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen, and he looked as nervous as Andromeda felt. Cygnus Black grinned as Druella jumped up to greet them with cheek kisses and knowing smiles. She shook the young man's hand.

"Lovely to see you again, dear."

Cygnus gestured toward the three girls, sitting in a row on the couch, all with their backs straight and hands folded in their laps.

"Lazlo, Danica, these are our daughters. Bellatrix, our eldest, will be married to Rodolphus Lestrange as soon as she finishes her education. She's quite bright."

Bellatrix stood up, gave a little genuflection of one knee, and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"This is our youngest, Narcissa. Pretty little thing, isn't she?"

Narcissa jumped up over-eagerly, curtsied, and flashed her loveliest smile.

"She's just darling," said the woman, Danica, smiling at the little brunette, whose hair was pulled into two low pigtails in front of her shoulders, each featuring a number of long banana curls. Bellatrix fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her sister looked like a damned porcelain doll.

"And this…" said Cygnus dramatically, motioning for her to stand. "Is Andromeda. She is especially delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Hello," said Andromeda softly, not looking especially delighted at all. She wiped her sweaty palms on her satin pale pink dress and tried to smile. Her hair was done up with curled strands hanging down, and she wore makeup, which made her look a good two years older than she was.

The dark-haired boy's nervous expression faded. His mouth drew up into a smile. He liked what he saw, Bella could tell.

"This is our son," said the man, Lazlo, whose Slavic accent was thicker than his wife's. "Igor. Ve've all heard so much about you, Andromeda. And Igor is as happy as ve are that you are the future Mrs. Karkaroff."

"Won't you join us for a drink, Lazlo, Danica?" Cygnus snapped his fingers, summoning a house-elf. "My brother and sister-in-law will be arriving shortly with their sons – you remember Orion and Walburga Black, don't you? – and then we'll sit down to supper."

The adults drank and chatted while the teenagers tried to make small talk, but the only one who seemed able to think of things to say was little Cissy.

"I can't wait for our cousins to get here!" She was beaming, her legs swinging under her chair, as she was still just a bit too short to reach the floor. "I have a new gobstones set to show Sirius! I've been teaching him to play. Do you know how to play gobstones, Igor? You can play with us. I'll teach you, same as I've been teaching Sirius. Okay? Okay!"

"She loves teaching Sirius things." Andromeda rolled her eyes. It was the first she'd spoken since "hello."

"He ees leettle?" asked Igor. "Leetle child?"

"Yes," said Andromeda. "And Regulus is even littler. They're sweet."

"They're my favorite cousins!" said Narcissa.

"They're our only cousins," said Bellatrix. Now she was the one rolling her eyes.

"No," said Narcissa. "We have cousins on Mother's side, too. Evan and Ella -"

"They're second cousins," said Bellatrix. "Or third, maybe? Mother's cousin's children."

"Still cousins!" said Narcissa pleasantly. "And mother has a brother, and he has childre-"

Bellatrix sent her sister a sharp look, silencing her. Narcissa knew full well Mother's brother had been disowned, along with all of his children by his second wife, the Muggleborn. Only his eldest son, who'd joined the Death Eaters, was personally known to the girls, and the Blacks had soured on him after he screwed up his own betrothal to Andromeda the year before by getting a young woman pregnant.

But Narcissa had a tendency to get far too excited about things, and meeting her sister's future husband was one of them.

Three days later, the Blacks received word – their son was not interested in Andromeda after all, for while he found her attractive enough, he also thought her impossibly dull. And his parents agreed.

They said they were sorry.

"That's it!" Druella had cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "We've exhausted all of our options! She'll have to marry someone closer to the family!"

"Closer than Uncle Darwin's son?" whispered Bellatrix, as the three girls were eavesdropping."Like who? Canis Major?"

(Canis Major was their dog.)

"That's revolting," whispered Narcissa unhelpfully. "You know, you're probably going to end up married to one of the Black cousins. I hope it's not Sirius. He's getting better at gobstones, but he picks his nose. But then, I think Regulus still wets the bed, so he's not much better."

"Sod off, you vapid little dust mite!" Andromeda had snapped. "I hope you choke on a Fudge Fly and die!" Tears in her eyes, she fled to her room.

Narcissa looked gobsmacked. "What did I do?"

"Oh, Cissy." Bellatrix put her arm around her littlest sister. "You always know just how to say the wrong thing."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix was clearly uneasy about sharing the memories, but she had her orders, and she would follow them.

"I have three vials, which I'll pour in and show you in succession. The first contains Narcissa's memory. It is, by far, the hardest to watch. The second belongs to Severus Snape. It shows the aftermath. The third, shortest, and least important is mine. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," said Hermione, at once curious and anxious.

Bellatrix tipped the swirly, airy contents of each vial into the cauldron. She gestured for Hermione to join her in the basin, and, a moment later, they were submerged, immersed in **February, 1980**.

 _Narcissa Malfoy, married three weeks shy of five years, was in such a lovely mood, she was singing. She was not a good singer, but the plump, happy baby sitting on the top of the changing table in front of her didn't know that, and so she drooled and smiled at her mummy, enjoying every tone-deaf word._

 _It was getting harder to get close to the changing table these days, what with the belly in the way. Though their daughter was only six months old, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were already five months into expecting their new addition. The midwife had told them to wait six weeks after the birth before having sex again – they'd managed to wait five and got pregnant straight away. This was a pleasant surprise, considering how long the first conception had taken._

 _"_ _Who's my beautiful girl?" Narcissa asked the baby. "Who's the prettiest girl to ever live? You are! My Diana! Mummy's sweet girl."_

"Who is that?" asked Hermione. "Draco has a sister?"

"Hush," said Bellatrix, her eyes fixated on the baby. "Watch."

 _"_ _Diana, named for the virgin goddess of childbirth and women – a perfect name for a perfect girl." Narcissa giggled and blew a raspberry against the baby's cheek._ _She finished dressing the baby, in a pale yellow and white cotton one-piece outfit with long sleeves, white socks with frilly lace around the ankles, and a little pale yellow scrunchy cloth headband that wrapped around her head. She raspberried the baby's pudgy cheek again, making Diana giggle even more._

 _"_ _Mm-mm-mm-mm," said baby Diana. Narcissa wiped the drool from her lower lip._

 _"_ _Yes, Mumma, that's me! Mumma!"_

 _"_ _Mmummumumum," babbled the baby. Her eyes were bright and gray-blue, her hair was short and blonde and curled a little on the ends, and her nose was the cutest little button. Narcissa tweaked it._

 _"_ _Yes, my brilliant girl, Mumma! Good talking!"_

 _There was a crack then, and a house elf appeared._

 _Dobby._

 _"_ _Mistress has company."_

 _"_ _It's Severus. He's bringing Diana's thrush potion. Lucius doesn't want me going out alone."_

 _"_ _Mistress-"_

 _"_ _I'll get the door." She lifted the baby under her arms and hugged her to her chest, putting her on an angle on account of the pregnancy._

 _"_ _Mistress…"_

 _"_ _Go, Dobby!" she snapped, startling the baby. "I said I'd get the door. You're supposed to be preparing lunch."_

 _Dobby bowed, but looked uneasy as he watched her leave._

 _She went to the door, baby in her arms, and opened it without checking who was on the other side._

 _"_ _You're late," she said as she pulled it back, but then she gasped._

 _It was not Severus at the door._

 _"_ _Hello, Mrs. Malfoy," said Sirius Black. He was twenty-one, his hair had grown out, and he was smiling in a most intimidating way. "Is this a bad time?"_

 _"_ _Yes, I'm sorry." She tried to shut the door, but he blocked it with his boot._

 _"_ _Let's not be rude. My friends and I are looking for your sister, Mrs. Lestrange."_

 _"_ _She… I'll tell her you came to call."_

 _Behind Sirius, young James Potter was smirking, and young Frank Longbottom's face was screwed up with concentration. All three men had their wands out._

 _Narcissa's wand was stuck back in her bun, where she'd put it for safe-keeping when changing the baby's nappy._

 _She backed up as Sirius pushed his way into Malfoy Manor._

 _"_ _How about a hug, cousin. It's been so long." He leaned close, pressing his lips very briefly to her cheek, and removed her wand from her dyed-blonde hair._

"That doesn't look like her wand," said Hermione. "Hers has the studs on the handle, it's black and silver. That one is delicate, cherry wood. It…"

 _Sirius snapped the wand in half, tossing the remains aside._

 _"_ _Oh!" Narcissa let out a strangled, wounded noise, as if what he'd broken had been one of her bones. "My husband…"_

 _"_ _We're not here for your husband," said Frank Longbottom, his voice harsh, gruff. "Where is Bellatrix?"_

 _"_ _She's… not here." As they talked, they moved forward, so as she talked, she backed up. The baby was quiet, taking stock of them, clinging to her mother. She seemed to sense there was reason to be afraid._

 _"_ _Pity." Sirius shook his head. "We'll have to teach you the lesson we'd reserved for her, and you can pass it along."_

 _"_ _She… she might be here!" Narcissa knocked into a tall ornate table on which a marble bust of Abraxas Malfoy was sat. It wobbled, but did not fall. "Wait here. I'll see!" She turned and hurried down the hall to the last room on the left. She opened the door, closed it, and secured it the Muggle way, by sliding shut the lock, as she was wandless. She was in the china room, which had curio cabinets and tall hutches with glass doors wall-to-wall, displaying fancy dishes of Malfoy matriarchs past. Narcissa went straight to the fireplace and was checking the tin on the mantle for Floo Powder when the door opened so hard it slammed against the wall._

 _"_ _Going somewhere, Mrs. Malfoy?" asked James Potter. "Is Bellatrix here, or is she not here?"_

 _"_ _I was going to Floo call her. She's... upstairs. I think."_

 _"_ _You're a liar." Frank Longbottom stalked to her, grabbed the container from her hand, and tossed it into the fireplace, making the flames flared up. He then used Aquamenti to force dissipation. "You know where she really is?"_

 _Narcissa hugged her daughter closer, looking as if she might cry._

 _"_ _I… I don't… I'm not…"_

 _"_ _Let me hold the baby." James Potter reached for Diana. "Perhaps you'll be better able to concentrate if you're not busy."_

 _"_ _No!"_

 _He was trying to pull the girl from her arms. She wouldn't let go._

 _"_ _Imperio," said Sirius lazily, waving his wand in her direction. Her eyes went blank, she released the girl. A moment later, he lowered his wand and she blinked hard before stepping forward, arms outstretched._

 _"_ _Return my-"_

 _"_ _Silencio!" Frank Longbottom stepped between her and James Potter. "Your wife's husband and his brother barged into our home when I was not present and attacked my wife. We only wish to return the favor."_

 _Narcissa tried to speak, but no sound came out. Her brown eyes – she wore no contacts today – were full of sheer terror._

 _"_ _Is Lucius here?" asked Sirius. "He might know where his master has sent my dear cousin Bella."_

 _Again, Narcissa spoke without sound._

 _"_ _Oh, right. Frank?"_

 _"_ _Finite Incantatem."_

 _"_ _Please, Sirius, cousin, please, I don't know where she is, I didn't know what the Lestrange brothers did to your friend's wife, and I don't think there's any reason to keep my baby away from me! Please!"_

 _"_ _Having another so soon?" He pressed his palm to her belly. She pushed his hand away. "Malfoy can't keep his filthy hands off you, can he?"_

 _"_ _He… he's here, now! I'll call for him and he'll make you leave. If he… if he finds you in here, bothering me like this, he'll… he'll kill you!"_

 _"_ _Call for him, then," said Sirius. He folded his arms, smirking. "Shouldn't she call for him, mate?"_

 _"_ _Yeah," said James Potter. He bounced the baby lightly as he spoke. "Please do give him a yell. I'd like a word with the man."_

 _"_ _Call for him," said Sirius. "Now."_

 _"_ _I…" Narcissa's eyes flicked from the fireplace to the door to her baby and back to Sirius. "Lu… Lucius!"_

 _"_ _Oh, you'll have to be louder than that!" Sirius stepped closer. "This is a large house. He won't hear you. Fill those lungs with air. Try again."_

 _"_ _Lucius!"_

 _"_ _Help her out, Padfoot!" said James. "It's the polite thing to do, yeah?"_

 _"_ _Sonorus," said Sirius, pointing his wand at his throat. "LUCIUS! LUCIUS, WE'VE GOT YOUR WIFE DOWN HERE! LUCIUS? OY, LUCIUS?" He pointed the wand at his throat again, cancelling the spell. "Hmm, strange."_

 _"_ _Damn strange," agreed James. "It's almost as if he's not even here."_

 _"_ _Almost like he's on a mission for Lord Voldyfuck."_

 _"_ _Lord Fuckdemort."_

 _"_ _Fuck Voldemort," snapped Frank. "And quit with your games. Are we doing this or not?"_

 _"_ _She's just as good, far as I'm concerned." Sirius looked her over hungrily. She pulled up on the collar of her velvet purple dress, then scratched at her upper chest, an old nervous habit._

 _"_ _I'll tell you anything," she said. "I know where Dolohov and Rookwood are hiding!"_

 _This seemed of particular interest to Frank, the Auror._

 _"_ _Where?"_

 _"_ _I'll tell you if you'll agree to leave immediately after!"_

 _"Oh, we'll leave 'after,' make no mistake," said Sirius._

 _"I meant after I tell you!" said Narcissa. "I tell, you leave."_

 _Frank sneered. "You'll tell me now or I'll kill you, how's that?"_

 _"_ _N-no. I'll t-tell you, and th-then…"_

 _Frank directed his wand toward the baby. "You'll tell me."_

 _So she did. She gave them all the details they needed to not only capture Dolohov and Rookwood, but to convict them, too._

 _"_ _Excellent work, mate," said James. "We'll take that one back to Dumbledore."_

 _"_ _Now that the official justification is out of the way…" Sirius sniggered. "Let's commence with the fun stuff."_

 _"_ _F-fun stuff?" Narcissa scratched harder and bit her lip. She shook her head. "No, thank you. I've... had enough... fun. Could I have my baby?"_

 _"Not yet," said Potter. He tickled the girl's tummy, but she didn't smile. Her eyes were trained on her mummy._

 _"_ _Kneel," said Frank, aiming his wand at Narcissa's heart. "Now."_

 _"_ _What are you going to do to me?"_

 _"_ _Only what your sister's husband and his brother did to my wife. Kneel."_

 _"_ _No… I… please, my husband… my sister…" She glanced at James. "That's my baby. Let me have my baby."_

 _"_ _Kneel," said Frank, this time pointing his wand._

 _Her eyes went blank again, and then she was on her knees._

"I don't know that I can watch," confessed Hermione, who was already feeling queasy and frightened by what she was about to witness.

"Neither can I." Bellatrix's gaze bore into the memory of Frank Longbottom; she was shooting daggers with her eyes. "I hate them."

Hermione winced and squinted as Frank took the baby while Sirius positioned himself behind her aunt, holding her head in place, then James received fellatio. Thanks to the Imperius Curse, the only indication that Narcissa did not wish to participate were the silent tears streaming steadily down her face. He came in her mouth, causing her to sputter and cough, and spit out the contents on the floor. He'd cancelled the spell the moment he finished.

 _"_ _Please, leave." Narcissa, her shoulders shaking, wiped her mouth with her sleeve. James stood, adjusted his trousers, and took the baby back from Frank._

 _"_ _Don't think we're quite done," said Frank. "Rodolphus didn't stop at fucking my wife's mouth, and he was quite clear about his future intentions when he asked her to give his regards to Lily Potter. Isn't that right, James?"_

 _"_ _Pretty clear, yeah," agreed James. "They both fucked your wife, didn't they Frank? And they've both got Lily in their sights. Sick men, those Lestrange brothers."_

 _"_ _Please, you've made your point!" Narcissa's voice was shaking. Her entire body was shaking. "Please, give me my baby and go."_

 _"_ _But Frank just said we're not done," said Sirius. "We want you to get the_ full _experience, as Alice did." He was already unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his trousers._

 _Narcissa, still on her knees, stared pleadingly up at him._

 _"_ _No, please, Sirius, don't! You can't. We're cousins!"_

 _"_ _No," he said. "We're not cousins anymore, remember? I was disowned." He jerked his head at Frank. "Hold her down. You can have her when I'm done. Unless James wants next go."_

 _James Potter, near the door, bounced the baby and cooed to her, reciting silly poems he remembered from childhood. He didn't seem to have heard Sirius._

 _Sirius forced her to her back. Frank Longbottom took hold of her wrists, pinning them above her head. He shoved up her velvet dress, removed her silk stockings, and tore her knickers._

 _He was rough._

 _He held her thighs open roughly and grabbed her by the throat roughly and thrust into her roughly, and she sobbed the entire time, but he did not let up, nor did Frank relax his grip on her wrists._

 _By the time he was finished, Longbottom was ready, and he did the same, albeit without the same level of force – or the same obvious personal satisfaction. He did it as if it was a chore he had no choice but to undertake, whereas Sirius had obviously been enjoying himself._

 _"_ _Prongs?" Sirius, who was standing, gestured down at the trembling, terrified, tear-stained woman on the floor. "Your turn."_

 _"_ _I think we should go," said James. "I think we should take this one with us. Give her to a good home. She shouldn't have to be raised by pureblood supremacists, monsters who follow You Know Who."_

 _"_ _Good thinking," said Frank, finally moving away from Narcissa. "We'd be rescuing the little mite."_

 _Sirius nudged Narcissa with the toe of his boot. "That alright with you, Cissy? Give your girl to a real family. You want what's best for her, don't you?"_

 _"_ _No, please… please…" She couldn't get up. Her back hurt. Her belly hurt. Her entire body was sore… "Please, no."_

 _Sirius knelt between her legs, which he'd again forced open, and leaned close, his abdomen flush to her pregnant belly. He kissed her on the mouth. She choked back a sob._

 _"_ _You're not the worst fuck I've had," he said, his voice low and gravelly, his mouth still near hers. "You'll be sure to tell your sister about this, won't you? You'll tell her it wasn't supposed to be you. We weren't looking for you. You're a substitution, a 'better than nothing.' But the message is for her. You'll pass it along, won't you?"_

Narcissa's strangled cry was echoed by another. Hermione turned to her right. Bellatrix – her mother – was sinking to knees, too weak and despondent to stand. She, like the Narcissa in the memory, was crying. Hermione brushed her hands against her cheeks. Tears flowed from her eyes, too.

 _"_ _If you see my mother, tell her I'm doing well." He moved his hand to her throat and applied pressure. "Tell her I've joined the Order of the Phoenix. Tell her I'd sooner see her dead than beg her forgiveness, as I know she wants me to."_

 _"_ _Come on, Padfoot," said James, rubbing the back of the baby, who was starting to fuss. "Let's go."_

 _"_ _Not yet… She has to promise." He loosened his grip. "Promise to tell my mother I'm well."_

 _"_ _I pr-promise… I'll tell her you're… well."_

 _"_ _Liar." He curled his hand into a fist, and hit her – hard – across the face. "You're like the rest of them, you care more about blood than family." He hit her again, this time bloodying her lip. "You married for money, you're a whore." Again, he hit her, the other hand tight again on her throat. "You support that Muggle-killing madman, you bitch. You vapid, stupid, galleon-grabbing, baby-factory slag!" This time, when he drew his fist up to punch her, Frank caught his arm and yanked him to his feet._

 _"_ _We're going!" he said. "That's enough. Let's go!"_

 _They left with the baby._

 _Narcissa tried to get up, to follow them, to stop them, but she was dizzy. Her lip was bleeding, her body hurt, the baby inside her seemed to be doing flips, and she'd been deprived of oxygen while he was choking her that last time._

 _The room went black._

 _She'd passed out._

"And now," said Bellatrix, who was still kneeling on the floor. "The second memory. Snape's."

 _Severus Snape had just apparated to Malfoy Manor. He had brought with him the potion to treat thrush, a common baby ailment, but one Narcissa could not get herself as she was not to leave Malfoy Manor alone these days. Too dangerous, Lucius said. Especially as he was so frequently traveling for the Dark Lord, leaving Narcissa, baby Diana, and his mother unprotected, save for the house elves._

 _And then his mother fell ill, landing in St. Mungo's, which meant his wife and daughter were even more alone. He'd therefore asked Snape to check up on them, and the man had been doing so – with his own mother recently deceased, he didn't have anyone else to check up on._

 _But today, upon arrival, something was… wrong._

 _The front door was open._

 _He could see it from the apparition point. The front door was wide open. He broke into a jog, wand at the ready, and ducked out of sight when three figures tore through it, heading toward him._

 _He nearly sent a Killing Curse their way when he realized these three were Frank Longbottom, Sirius Black, and James Potter._

 _But then he saw what James was holding._

 _The baby._

 _So he hit Frank and Sirius with two rapid-fire stunners._

 _"_ _What the… Snivellus!" James turned his wand on the greasy-haired, skinny man standing before him._

 _"_ _What have you done to Narcissa?"_

 _"_ _Didn't do a bloody thing," said James. "We came for information, found her in a bad way, assumed she'd been attacked, probably by You Know Who. We decided to take the baby for her own protection. Can't be safe in this house, considering."_

 _"_ _Give me the baby and you'll leave with your life."_

 _"_ _Or…?"_

 _"_ _Or you won't."_

 _James laughed. "You overestimate your abilities, Snape. Lily said you've always been undeservedly pompous when it came to your magical talent."_

 _Severus' wand hand twitched, but he sent no spell, afraid to harm the baby._

 _"_ _Isn't Lily with child?" he asked. "You'd harm a baby, separating her from her mother, knowing how such a thing would completely crush Lily if she were in Narcissa's position?"_

 _"_ _Lily would never be in Narcissa's position," spat James, but he looked a little worried._

 _"_ _What do you think Lily will say when she learns you've committed a kidnapping? Will she love you knowing the sort of man you truly are?"_

"Lily doesn't know the half of it," said Hermione.

Bellatrix nodded. "She went to her grave without knowing what a monster she'd married."

 _"I'll set the baby down," said James. "Then I'll enervate Sirius while you enervate Frank. We'll all keep wands up as the three of us go to where we can apparate. If you so much as move, I'll Crucio the baby."_

 _"You seem like excellent father material," Severus said dryly. "Fine."_

 _They did so. Sirius immediately moved to hex Snape, but James stopped him. "We're leaving!" He set the baby down on the cold, hard ground. Thankfully it hadn't snowed recently, but she started to wail._

 _"Let's go!" James ran toward the safe point, Sirius and Frank hot on his heels. With three resounding cracks, they were gone. Snape was moving toward the baby before they'd even disappeared. He lifted her awkwardly, holding her to his chest, and rushed toward Malfoy Manor. Upon entering, he called for Narcissa._

 _Dobby appeared._

 _"Mistress is… Mistress is… Mistress..."_

 _"Lead me to her!"_

 _Dobby took his hand and apparated them to the china room._

 _Narcissa was still crumpled on the floor, bleeding._

 _"Narcissa!" Severus rushed to her side, set the baby to sit on the floor beside them, and cradled the head of his friend's wife in his arms. He pulled from his pocket Essence of Dittany and a handkerchief, but before applying he checked her breathing, quickly examined her, and contemplated waking her._

 _"They did this to her?" he asked Dobby. "Those three men who were just here?"_

 _The elf squeaked and began pulling at his ears. "Dobby did not know. Dobby does not bother Mistress when guests are present. Dobby is not allowed to come unless called. Dobby-"_

 _"Yes, fine. Apparate us to… to her bedroom. Is there a bath off her bedroom? And a bed for the baby?"_

 _The elf nodded._

 _"Apparate us to her bedroom, then." He picked up the baby and held tight to Narcissa. Dobby grabbed hold of them._

 _The memory swirled and then they were in the master bedroom at Malfoy Manor. Severus quickly located the crib and set the baby in it, then lifted Narcissa and placed her gently on top of the bedclothes._

 _He examined her more thoroughly this time, though he made no attempt to look under her dress. Before applying Dittany, he used a small item from his pocket to wake her – smelling salt._

 _She flinched, yelped, and tried to climb away the moment her eyes were open, but he caught her arm._

 _"Please, Narcissa, it's me, Severus. Let me help you. Your lip is split, your nose may be broken. I want to apply Essence of Dittany to your lip and a bruise salve to your face and throat. Where does it hurt the most?"_

 _Her gaze flicked from his face down and back up, and though she hadn't spoken, he knew._

 _"They didn't."_

 _She nodded._

 _"Which one?"_

 _She covered her face with her hands._

 _"Which one… which one raped you?"_

 _At the word 'raped,' her sobs resumed._

 _"All of them," she managed to choke out. "All of them… all of them… And they stole… my baby… my baby… my Diana!"_

 _"No!" He rushed to the crib and lifted the six-month-old, who had stopped crying but was not her usual bubbly self. "See? Here she is. I took her back. She's alright, Narcissa. She's alright."_

 _"Diana!" Narcissa reached for the baby, sobbing even harder, but Severus encouraged her to relax onto her back against the pillows, as he held the baby._

 _"I need to tend to you. Now that you know she's alright, I'll set her back in the crib and wash my hands."_

 _But the separation brought the baby back to tears._

 _"I have to hold her!" shouted Narcissa._

 _"Very well." Severus placed her on her mother's chest and went to work,_ _applying Dittany and bruise salve where it was needed, until all that was left was to examine her… there._

 _"Is it alright," he asked delicately, clearly uncomfortable. "If I look?"_

 _She nodded, but her face with red with the sheer humiliation of it._

 _He winced. They had not been gentle, and though he was no midwife or 'female Healer,' he thought it was possible something might have torn, as there was blood on her inner thighs. He had no idea what to do, but reckoned the Dittany and salve could at least alleviate the pain._

 _"You could apply it yourself," he said carefully. She shook her head, closed her eyes, and shook her head once more._

 _"I'll be gentle," he promised, but she reacted as though he was rough anyway, flinching again, and crying out. He made it as quick and painless as possible. He then washed his hands again. When he returned to the bedroom, Narcissa had rolled onto her side, her growing belly in front of her, and was snuggling the baby to her._

 _"Will you stay?" she whispered as he headed toward the door, intending to give her privacy (and maybe to track down and murder Potter, Black, and Longbottom). "Lucius is gone for at least another week. My mother-in-law is in the hospital. Bella is gone for who knows how long. I can't tell my parents… not this! If you leave, I'll be all alone! I'll be all alone and wandless and they'll come back and they'll kill me and take my baby and -"_

 _"Alright," he said. "I'll stay."_

 _That first night, he sat in a chair beside her bed, watching them sleep, her and the baby. They didn't sleep much, none of them, and what little they got was fitful. The next night, she asked him to move the crib so it was flush beside the bed, so she could have the baby right there with her hand through the bars on Diana's belly, then she asked him to lay with her._

 _He crawled into the bed fully clothed, having only removed his frock coat and shoes. She was in a long-sleeved cotton nightdress that had a high neckline and went to her ankles. She turned onto her side so she could face the crib. He stayed on his back, staring up at the ceiling._

 _The third night, he held her hand._

 _By the fourth night, he was spooning her. She held his hand tightly to her belly, her entire body tense and rigid, and as she had every night thus far, she cried herself to sleep._

 _"If Lucius doesn't return tomorrow," whispered Narcissa. "if he doesn't come back to me tomorrow, for just one more night, will you stay?"_

 _"Yes," he said. "I'll stay."_

"The final memory," said Bellatrix, "Is mine. It is short, and takes place months later, in September. By this time, Draco is over three months old, Diana is a year, the Potters had been in hiding for some time, Lucius was again away on business for the Dark Lord, and I was still working toward accepting your death." She was standing again, so she wrapped an arm around Hermione, settling her hand on the girl's waist.

"I was terribly jealous of Narcissa, then. She had two babies and I had none. It did not seem fair. I had no idea what she'd been through and was dismissive of what she called her 'nervous disorder, brought on by pregnancy.' I thought she was weak. I had no idea." Bellatrix ducked her head, ashamed.

"Please do not judge me too harshly in this, Hermione. I didn't know what had happened, and I was hurting. It should have been your birthday, this day. I should have been with you, celebrating your first birthday. Instead…"

 _Snape was again in bed with Narcissa, holding her. The crib was still beside the bed, as was a small bassinet. Both babies were asleep, but Narcissa and Severus were talking quietly when Bellatrix burst in._

 _"I knew it! I knew something odd was going on between you! Snape! Get up!" She had her wand trained on him. He obeyed, but at a slower pace than she would've preferred._

 _"Please, Bella, it's not what it looks like," said Narcissa._

 _"It looks like you're in bed with this Mudblood scum!" Bellatrix jabbed her wand at him. He drew his own wand, but did not raise it._

 _"No, Bella, you don't understand-"_

 _"You really are an attention-needy little slag, aren't you, Cissy? It isn't enough for you to have a husband you love and two healthy babies, you have to have every damned Death Eater in the Dark Lord's inner circle? Who else have you been shagging? Crouch? Karkaroff? Dolohov? My husband?"_

 _"We were not-" Severus started._

 _"Shut it!" She shot a stinging hex his way, but he deflected._

 _Bellatrix continued to rant and rave furiously, which woke both babies and made them cry, while Severus tried calmly to explain that she'd gotten the wrong idea and while Narcissa begged her to not say a word to Lucius._

 _"You're a nasty slumming whore, aren't you, Cissy?" Bellatrix said cruelly, sneering at her sister. "Why should I keep any secret for you?"_

 _"I was raped!" Narcissa exclaimed. She felt to her knees on the soft bedroom rug and succumbed to sobs._

 _"She was what?" Bella again turned her wand on Snape "You raped my sister?"_

 _"Not him!" Narcissa managed to say. "Not him. Not him."_

 _"What? Who... what do you... Snape?"_

 _"Potter," he said. "Longbottom… and Black."_

 _"Black?" Bellatrix's face screwed up with confusion. "What Black, which Black?"_

 _"Who else?" asked Snape. "Sirius Black."_

 _"But he's our cousin."_

 _"Yes," said Snape. "He's well aware of that. I was able to discern most of what happened without needing Legilimency, but it helped to fill in the gaps."_

 _"Cissy… Oh, Cissy." Bellatrix knelt across from her sister, took her chin gently between her thumb and forefinger, and said softly, "Legilimens."_

 _She saw flashes of what happened. Narcissa on her knees. Narcissa on her back. Narcissa collapsing, losing consciousness._

 _"Those fucking monsters," Bellatrix hissed._

 _"I've been caring for her," said Snape. "She does not wish to share this with Lucius."_

 _"What? Why?!"_

 _"He… you… Rodolphus…" Narcissa tried to compose herself. "It's a cycle, Bella! They did to me what Rodolphus and Rabastan did to Frank Longbottom's wife, Alice. And if Lucius knows, he might go and do to – well, no, I know he'd never do that, but he might murder one of them, or all of them, or someone else to send a message to them, and where does it end? Over and over, raping and killing, each one revenge for the last. Until what? Until we're all victims or they're all dead? No. No!"_

 _"I'll kill them, then," said Bellatrix. "Don't tell Lucius. Leave it to me. All of them. I'll start with the Longbottoms."_

 _"No! Please, Bella, don't kill them! Promise me you won't kill the Longbottoms." Narcissa grabbed Bellatrix by the shoulders and forced eye contact. "Promise me you won't kill the Longbottoms, Bella, promise me!"_

 _"I won't kill the Longbottoms, I promise," said Bellatrix. "But I'm not going to let those three men get away with this, either."_

 _"Please, Bella." Narcissa hugged her sister tightly, burying her face against Bella's neck, under her wild curly hair. "Please, Bella. Don't tell anyone, not even Lucius. And don't go looking for them. You'll get caught or killed. You'll go back to Azkaban. Please… please just stay with me. And don't be angry with Severus. He's been helping. He's been the only one I could trust."_

"I was jealous of that, too," said Bellatrix, pointing at the memory of herself, which was hugging Narcissa. "It ate away at me that he'd known and I hadn't for all those months. And a year later, when the Dark Lord fell and the Potters were dead, I knew I'd be among the first picked up and sent to Azkaban – that's why I went to the secret hideaway home of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Everyone believes I tortured them for information to find the Dark Lord, but that's utter nonsense. I knew they wouldn't know where to find him. But I thought, at that point, I had nothing else to lose – and when the war was over, I didn't want them lauded as heroes. I didn't want Auror and Order Member Frank Longbottom bragging and boasting and getting his picture in the papers, tormenting my sister over and over again for the rest of time. I didn't kill him because I'd promised, and I didn't touch Alice at all - I told the others only to watch her, to ensure she didn't leave, but they didn't listen. As far as Frank was concerned, though, yes, I tortured him. I held the Cruciatus on him until his mind was completely broken. I made damned sure he'd never hurt her again - her, nor anyone else. And I would've gone for Sirius too, but they caught me before I caught him." She brushed a tendril of hair back from Hermione's face. "Do you hate me for what I did? For using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom until he went mad? Or for killing Sirius at the Ministry?"

"No," admitted Hermione. "No, I don't. I... I think I might have done the same."

"My girl." Bellatrix hugged her tightly, as she had Narcissa in the memory. "Had I known you were alive, I never would've let them take me back to prison."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1979**

 **(eighteen years ago)**

Bellatrix was trying on real maternity wear for the first time, as her pregnancy was finally showing, and she couldn't be happier. This particular dress belonged to Narcissa. It was a deep burgundy color, and managed to be form-fitting and flattering while also allowing for good space in the waist.

"You look lovely in that," said Narcissa, standing behind her and slightly to the side. Both were looking into the tall freestanding bedroom mirror. "It was one of my favorites, but I'm already too big for it, and magically altered clothes have a tendency to fall apart, as you've been learning. Those mended by charms, I mean. Not those done by Madam Malkin."

"The Dark Lord won't allow me out to shop for my own maternity wear." Bellatrix turned and glanced at the mirror over her shoulder, trying to see herself from behind. "He's afraid if anyone knows I'm expecting, I'll become a liability – or be vulnerable to attacks. He wants to keep me safe. Me and the baby."

"How does the Dark Lord feel about being a father?" Narcissa couldn't resist checking herself out in the mirror, too. She was now in her third trimester, and everyone said she was 'glowing.'

"He'll get used to the idea, eventually, and love the baby every bit as much as I do!"

Narcissa chuckled. "Impossible. No one can love a baby as much as its mother. Of this, Mother assures me."

Bellatrix giggled. "Alright, well, he'll love her just a smidgen less than I will, then. But he'll _love_ her – that's the important thing."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione felt sick. Literally, physically sick. She was glad she hadn't eaten much today – knowing she'd be watching this later squelched her appetite – because otherwise she might vomit.

"This is precisely why I didn't want to show you." Bellatrix stroked her hair and hugged her daughter close. "I knew it would be traumatic, but your father felt you deserved to know."

"How could anyone do something so… so… so heinous?" Hermione could hardly keep her voice steady enough to speak. "He just… he… and… she…"

"I know, love. But Sirius had been corrupted. He spent too much time around Muggles, same as Potter and Longbottom – three purebloods who turned their backs on their roots, choosing instead to consort with those for whom that behavior is normalized. Spend enough time surrounded by animals, and one will inevitably develop animalistic instincts, will begin to behave by the same standards. Our family lost Sirius officially when he was sixteen, but he'd been gone long before, in his head – and in his heart. By the time he did what he did, Narcissa wasn't his cousin anymore. She wasn't even human to him. Their side completely dehumanizes ours in order to justify the atrocities they've committed against us. This was no different. I'm sure, if you were to have asked him, he'd have called what they did necessary for the greater good."

"The greater good." Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, but that didn't keep the tears in. "That Dumbledore book – it says he and Grindelwald were anti-Muggle for the greater good."

"Yes, well…" _Shit_ , thought Bellatrix. _Poor word choice._

"Will you stay with me awhile?" Hermione snuggled against her mother, resting her cheek on the woman's chest, the way she used to with her other mother, the former mother, when she was a little girl.

"Yes," said Bellatrix, but not five minute later, her forearm began to burn. The Dark Mark.

"But you said…"

"I'm terribly sorry, Hermione." Bellatrix extricated herself from the bed, kissed her daughter's forehead, and hurried to the cell door. "I'll come back as soon as I am able, I promise!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"You summoned me, my Lord?" Bellatrix was confused. She'd hurried outside to the point from which she could apparate, closed her eyes, touched her Mark… and then opened her eyes to find she was in the bedroom she'd been sharing with the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord smiled. A self-satisfied smile.

"She saw the memories?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And now she will ruminate on what she saw. I want her alone with her thoughts. I want her to have sufficient time to process… and I want the knowledge to be impactful."

Bellatrix frowned. "But my Lord, if I were there to comfort her–"

"No, Bella. Trust me. It's better this way." He yawned and motioned toward the bed. "Tired?"

"No, my Lord."

"Yes," he said. "You are."

"But my Lord-"

"Undress yourself and get into bed, Bella."

"I'm… not in the mood tonight, my Lord."

Didn't he understand what she'd just been doing? What she'd just been watching? She'd seen the memory before, nearly two decades ago, when she learned what had happened, but it was just as traumatic and sickening and infuriating and heart-ripping now as it had been then. How could he be thinking about sex while she was feeling like falling apart?

"I didn't ask whether you're in the mood, Bellatrix." His voice was high, cold, without inflection. "Undress and get into bed."

Her nose twitched like she might cry, but she refused to even let tears form, never mind fall. Instead, she did as directed, removing her attire entirely, then slipping between the sheets. He watched her, rubbing himself through the fabric of his wizard's robe, eerily expressionless.

She closed her eyes while he fucked her.

She was not in the mood.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape was not supposed to be tutoring at Malfoy Manor tonight, but Dumbledore had just assigned him hall duty until midnight on Saturday after the Hogsmeade visit, and he knew there wouldn't be a way to sneak away that night. He hoped she would understand – but then laughed at himself for even hoping, as it wasn't as if the girl could possibly have anything better to do.

He approached her cell in his usual quiet way to find her in bed, but she was not half-naked and touching herself, as he liked to see. She was on her side, stroking the soft fur of the orange half-kneazle, and sobbing quietly.

"Miss Granger?" he said softly, not wanting to startle her. "Are you alright?"

"Professor?" She sat up, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

The cat stretched and hopped up on the desk, watching them. Severus could tell from the redness of Hermione's face and eyes that she'd been crying for some time.

"What's wrong? Do you need medical attention?" He hadn't brought with him any potions, save for the Essence of Dittany and bezoar he typically had on hand.

"I saw it." She sniffled. "The memory. The three memories. My aunt Narcissa's memory. I saw… I saw…" Her face crumpled.

He hurried inside the cell, not bothering to close the barred door behind him, and rushed to kneel beside the bed. He wasn't the most compassionate man in general, and working with teenagers had made him nearly immune to the tears of girls, but this – this tore at his heart. His heart thudded and his stomach ached as he remembered how it had felt to find Narcissa on the floor in that room… how it felt to cradle her baby in his arms… how it felt to promise he'd kill them if they came back.

He'd applied Essence of Dittany to Narcissa's face, wrists, throat, thighs… and to her most personal place. She had flinched when he touched her, but allowed it, and it had been the first time he'd laid a hand on a woman _there_ , but he felt nothing but revulsion and fury as he did so.

He was certain his father had done to his mother what Black had done to Narcissa, though Mum never told him so. He remembered being a little boy, though, and crawling into bed with her while she cried, after his father – drunk – had walked out. She had flinched when he touched her, too. He was perhaps six or seven years old then and could still vividly recall his own mother flinched away from his hug.

And now, when he reached for Hermione, with the hope of offering some measure of comfort, she, too, instinctively flinched and pulled away.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's not you. It's… I saw you. I saw how you cared for her." Hermione repositioned herself so she was again on her side, her knees curled up, almost, but not quite, in a fetal position. The same way Narcissa had slept by his side for those first several nights, until Lucius returned home.

Just as he had for her, he moved around the bed and settled on his side, one arm around Hermione, resting his hand on her abdomen. Hers was flat, the fabric of her shirt was soft, and she relaxed against him, unlike Narcissa, who had been swollen with child and impossibly tense; she'd held him so tight her knuckles had gone white.

"Will you stay awhile, Professor?" whispered Hermione, closing her eyes again. "Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

"Yes," he said, knowing full well this was a stupid and dangerous decision. "Yes, I'll stay."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter! I'm sorry this one was late - had a bit of an issue at home and fell behind. Sorry for the lack of Severus/Hermione in this one but the next two should make up for it... I hope!

Thank you for reading. Please, if you can, leave me a review to let me know what you think, whether you have any questions, and your predictions for the future. I love reading them!

 **-AL**

* * *

 **Coming Up:**

 **Chapter Sixteen:** Severus makes a series of terrible mistakes.

 **Chapter Seventeen:** Bella and Hermione pay Andromeda a visit.


	17. SECTUMSEMPRA

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN:**

 **SECTUMSEMPRA**

 **2 May 1997**

 **(the present)**

His first mistake of the second of May was waking up in the bed of Hermione Granger – No, Hermione _Black_ – when he should have spent the night alone in his own bed at Hogwarts. It was a mistake to have spent the night with her, it was a mistake to wake to find his arms around her, it was a mistake to have fallen asleep spooning her.

It was a mistake compounded by his next mistake. And the next. And then another after that.

But she smelled so bloody good. She smelled of the same rosewater shampoo Narcissa used, but while he found it only familiar on the wife of His friend, it was positively enticing coming from the brunette beside him. He nosed closer, breathing in deeply, and was rewarded by a contented sigh she emitted in her sleep. She was entirely relaxed against him, her small hand on top of his, which was over her abdomen. She wouldn't even notice if he buried his nose in her soft, wild brown curls, would she?

He did. She didn't.

And then his nose was brushing against the back of her neck under those curls… and then his lips were following… and then she stirred.

"Mm." She was still asleep, but the little moan drove him mad.

He pressed his lips to her skin again. And then the skin of her upper back. And then he brushed her blouse aside to kiss her exposed shoulder.

And her hand, the one on top of his, drew both their hands up over her breast, and he couldn't help thrusting against her, letting her feel the straining tip of his morning erection against her arse… and her eyes were open… and she was twisting her body, pulling him down to her with her left hand on the back of his right shoulder and her right hand over his right hand over her right breast…

He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. He knew before he made the mistake that it would be a mistake and he – as a spy, as a _man_ – could not afford to make such mistakes…

But then his mouth was on hers, and she was responding, and her lips were so soft…

He moved his hand to her left breast and squeezed hard as he positioned his body over hers, settling his hips between her parted thighs, and kissed her again. This time the tip of his tongue darted out, tracing her lower lip, slipping into her mouth, tasting her tongue.

And, still, she was responding. Her back arched and her breath quickened and her hands held tightly to the backs of his shoulders, and he thought he might not be able to stop, he might not want to stop, he might undress her here and fuck her fast and try to escape before anyone could discover them in this position.

But then she whispered, "Professor" and the word washed over him like ice water on a freezing winter day, a shock to the system, entirely unwelcome, possibly deadly.

He pulled away, extricated himself from her bed, and smoothed out his shirt, trying to ignore the desperate discomfort in his trousers – trying to ignore the fact that her bra-clad chest was half-hanging out of her unbuttoned blouse. Had he undone those buttons? Had she? Did she sleep that way for her comfort, or had she exposed her supple flesh for his pleasure?

"Please don't leave, Professor." She sat up, her wide eyes begging him to stay. "I'm sorry. I just… you're the only person I can talk to, the only one who could possibly understand what it's like to be on both sides – and to be on no side. To be… alone… like this. You're the only one I can trust."

"You cannot trust me, Miss Black." He reached for his frock coat, pulled it on, and began doing up the buttons. "I am the last person you can trust."

"Sir, I'm sorry. Don't go." She sounded as though she might cry.

He put on his blank-faced mask, the one he wore at Death Eater gatherings when they were not wearing literal masks, the one he wore around the Order. The one he often wore around the classroom.

"Speak of this to no one," he said, not that he thought she would talk. "This was a mistake."

He left carrying his shoes.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1979**

 **(eighteen years ago)**

As he had so often over the last several years, he summoned her to his side from the bedroom, the one in the house (inn? Manor? Flat? Cottage?) she'd never otherwise seen. He was dressed like a Muggle, which he hated, but which was necessary when going out among them for an entire day, undetected. He was a Wanted man in the wizarding world, and while it had been a nice break to travel incognito for several hours, he relished getting back into his wizard's robe and comfortable shoes… after he was through with her, of course.

She arrived wearing the burgundy dress borrowed from Narcissa only yesterday. She knew it looked good and she knew it. The maternity dress showed off her little baby bump, but also flattered her figure, all breasts and hips and soft thighs and toned arms. She'd even altered the neckline slightly to be a bit lower-cut, as she had ample cleavage to show off (unlike poor Cissy, whose bra was more for show than to hold anything up).

His eyebrows rose when he saw her.

"It's real," he said, smoothly making his way toward her, a glass of firewhisky in hand.

"What's real, my Lord?"

"This." He pressed his free palm to her belly. "My child, growing in you."

She beamed. "Yes, my Lord."

"If you were any other witch, it would have been aborted by now." He took a long swig of the cinnamon-flavored alcohol, which burned going down. "You know that, don't you, Bella? I wouldn't consider letting any other witch carry my baby."

She was tempted to ask if 'any other witch' was at risk of conceiving his baby, but knew better than to question him on something so personal, though the flare up of jealousy made her face and neck go hot.

"I shall raise the child in devoted service to you, my Lord." She tossed back her hair, jutted up her chin, and smiled confidently. "The child will grow to be your ideal soldier, like me."

"Like you." He kissed her gently. "My ideal soldier."

"I love you," she whispered, even though she knew he did not enjoy hearing this as much as she enjoyed saying it. "I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

"I know." He kissed her again, then downed the rest of his drink while his other hand went to his belt buckle. "Show me."

She dropped obediently to her knees.

She knew just how to show him.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

His second mistake was not going directly to Hogwarts.

He stopped off at Headquarters.

Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

For no reason at all.

It was quiet today. No Weasleys. No Lupin. No Shacklebolt, Dumbledore, McGonagall, no Harry Potter, and, obviously, no Sirius Black.

He felt no sadness over Black's death. None. Nor did he feel for James Potter, and, quite honestly, he felt Harry was better off for having grown up without him.

But without Lily?

The boy should have grown up with Lily. Lily should not have died. There was no reason to kill her. The Dark Lord had promised not to target her, but upon his 'rebirth' explained she'd gotten most unfortunately in the way.

It wasn't fair. She didn't deserve it. But at the same time, he knew she wouldn't have wanted to go on living had her baby boy been killed. He remembered Narcissa in the days, weeks, and months after Diana's death. She was despondent. Broken. Sunk in a deep depression she may not have ever recovered from, if not for the fact that she still had Draco, and he needed her.

Severus did not understand what it was to be a parent, and when the Dark Lord initially targeted the Potters, his only concern was for Lily. Let the baby die – it shouldn't have been born anyway, the son of that abomination Potter. She could marry again… marry Severus, maybe… and have another child to replace the first.

He'd genuinely felt that way, then.

He'd been stupid.

He sat in the room with the tapestry and drank, but not too much – he had to get to Hogwarts, he had work to do, he had a master there, he had pupils.

What had he almost done with the girl? It had been seven years since he last fucked a student – and she was, technically, his student – and he'd vowed then never to do that again.

But she'd smelled good and looked good and felt good, and it had been a long time since his last good fuck.

Charity Burbage had been the most recent. A half-blood, the Muggle Studies teacher was homely and kind but even more socially awkward than he was, and that made her an ideal occasional hook-up for a man like him, as she was just as lonely. Perhaps he should pay her a visit after his patrol shift ended tonight… he could close his eyes, fuck her pussy from behind, and pretend she had bushy brown hair and a know-it-all attitude… He could imagine it now… His pants grew tighter… He pictured not Charity, but Hermione, on her knees on the bed, with him standing, positioned behind her, rubbing at her clit with two fingers while plunging mercilessly into her tight wetness… He would have to unfasten his trousers soon… This was almost painful… His hand went down, over the fabric, stroking…

He didn't hear the door open, but his eyes flew open when it closed. He placed a pillow over his lap – not that doing so wouldn't attract suspicion.

"Just me," said Nymphadora Tonks. She moved to sit beside him on the couch. Too close. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and her mouse-brown hair, in its natural state, hung limply to her shoulders.

"The werewolf doesn't want you?"

"He wanted me last weekend, but on Wednesday he changed his mind again. It's always the same. 'I'm too old, too poor, too dangerous…' He doesn't understand that I don't care about his age or his wealth or his condition."

"He doesn't deserve you. And you deserve better."

"Thanks so much, Snape." She rolled her eyes. "I had no idea you cared so much for me."

"I don't." He couldn't hide a smirk. "But I think so little of him, it would be difficult for a woman _not_ to deserve better."

"Speaking of what women don't deserve… I appreciate that you haven't told him what I… what I did for you yesterday. I know he was entering as you left."

"If you are referring to sucking me off while I sat in that chair…" He pointed across the room. "Don't thank me. I was not being chivalrous; I merely haven't told him yet because I am waiting for the ideal moment. His birthday, perhaps. Or Christmas morning. Your wedding day? I'll ruminate over it."

"I don't know why I ever gave myself to you."

"I do." The smirk grew into a Cheshire Cat grin. "You wanted to disappoint Mummy, remember? And disappoint her, you did."

"I love my mother." Tonks drew up her knees, leaning against his side, and rested her head on his shoulder. "But I also hate my mother. Is that normal?"

"As someone who both loved and hated his mother, I can only say it's not unheard of."

"Is Hermione alive, Snape? My mother-"

"Did we not discuss this yesterday?"

"My mother says-"

"And your mother is a Seer, is she?"

"My mother knows things." She stared up at him.

He stared straight ahead. "Your mother is an idiot."

"We both know she's anything but." She slipped her hand under the pillow between his legs, and his cock, which had not completely deflated from his fantasy of a few minutes ago, sprung back to life. "Tell me, Snape. Tell me she's alive. Tell me where she is."

"We both know I'll do anything but." He mimicked her word choice purposely, and she smiled a little.

"They're keeping her somewhere. Malfoy Manor would be my first guess, but it's been raided four times this year, and nothing." She unbuttoned his trousers. "We sought permission to raid my grandfather's home, but it was denied. All we need is a shred of probable cause…"

"There is no…" He groaned – her hand had just come in contact with his hard cock, stroking over the outside of his underpants. "No probable cause."

"Anything. Give us _anything_."

"I'll give _you_ anything." He grabbed her, and in one fluid motion had her own her knees, her belly pressed against the seat of the couch, with him behind her. She didn't stop him from unzipping her jeans, shimmying them down, slipping his fingers inside her…

She was a better fuck than Charity – tighter, more animated – but not soft and sweet-smelling and intellectually engaging like her cousin, Hermione…

She was not what he wanted, but she'd have to do in a pinch.

She was his second big mistake of the day.

It went downhill from here.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1982**

 **(15 years ago)**

She etched a line into the wall, to represent another day in captivity. She hated herself for having gotten caught torturing the Longbottoms six months ago. She should have broken her promise to Cissy and killed them, then directly gone to find Sirius Black before Aurors closed in on her, but she spent too long in their humble home, enjoying the way Frank Longbottom screamed and cried and begged for mercy. She hadn't intended to harm his wife, too. Technically, _she_ hadn't – that had been the work of her husband and his brother, whose orders had only been to keep the woman under control until Bella was finished. She had focused on Frank, while Crouch – the sniveling whiny weasel – played lookout.

She ran her fingertip over today's line. She scraped each with a small fragment of concrete that had broken off the wall shortly after her arrival after she smacked it with her chain.

"Salazar's sins," she whispered, her favorite phrase. There were an awful lot of markings in this wall. Too many, already. And so many more to come.

If she had the date correct – and she was certain she did – today was the one-year anniversary of the death of her niece, Diana. When it happened, the poor mite hadn't even been two years old, and Draco had been only a month from one.

Sometimes, when the Dementors were too close and the bad thoughts were consuming her, all Bella could hear were the screams of her sister as she burst into Bella's bedroom in Malfoy Manor, cradling the cold body of her toddler.

"Fix her!" Narcissa had cried desperately, thrusting the girl into Bella's arms. But it was too late. She was gone.

Bellatrix closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the dirty, flat cot in her tiny cell offered no comfort. Six months she'd been locked up already, with an entire lifetime to go.

She dreamt about Narcissa's screams.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

His third mistake actually happened some twenty years ago, but it led directly to the last major disaster of the day.

He hadn't been able to afford new books and supplies when he was a Hogwarts student, so he relied on the charity of strangers, which he hated. He was given money from a special fund each year with which he could purchase secondhand books and cauldrons and quills, but there were certain things he preferred to have new, especially as the caveat for using school funds was having to give back whatever was unused at the end of the year.

One of these was his Sixth Year potions book. He bought it secondhand, as he often did, and he wrote in the margins, as he often did, and he intended to keep it at the end of the year, as he often did… but Slughorn, in front of the entire class, reminded him to return it on the last day of class. So he left it on the professor's desk, even though that was tantamount to leaving his diary in someone else's possession. Thankfully, he hadn't written his real name inside, choosing instead to go with "Property of the Half-Blood Prince." But still. He'd made notes about better ways to brew certain potions, and spells of his own creation, and counter-curses he was certain no sixth year had ever tried to master before.

And he lost it all.

Years later, when he became a professor, he thought about searching for it and stealing it back, but by this point it would be too dangerous to be associated with it, to have it discovered in his possession, given what some of those spells and hexes could do… and how popular they'd been among Death Eaters during the war. No, better to never again lay eyes or a finger on it and feign ignorance should it ever come to light.

That was a mistake.

He should have found it and destroyed it instead.

Before that imbecile "Roonil Wazlib" got a hold of it.

He was patrolling the corridors in the late afternoon as expected when Moaning Myrtle started to wail.

"MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!"

He burst in to find his godson, Draco, writhing on the floor, covered in blood and crying.

Harry Potter stood over him.

He shoved Harry roughly aside and knelt beside the boy. Immediately he recognized this as a terrible spell of his own invention, inspired by a severing charm but intended to be used as a weapon.

He muttered the singsong incantation that would close the wounds and stop the blood flow, but it would not be enough. The boy would need a blood replenishing potion, an abundance of Dittany, and the overnight care of Madam Pomfrey. He had to get him to the nurse.

He gently wiped the blood from Draco's face and continued knitting together the slashed skin, performing the counter-curse over and over. After the third time, he helped Draco, who was almost surely dizzy from the blood loss and in great pain, to his feet.

"You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that… come…" He helped his godson across the bathroom, but at the door he turned. The fury building within him was directed not only at Potter but at himself, for this never would have happened had he destroyed the damn book decades ago.

"And you, Potter…" he said coldly. "You wait here for me."

He delivered the boy to Madam Pomfrey, briefly explaining that he'd been attacked.

"Contact his mother," said the nurse, brushing his hair back from his eyes. "She should know."

"No." Severus' jaw was set. "She will only worry."

"She's his _mother_ ," argued Madam Pomfrey. "Don't you feel she ought to know? Trust me, as a mother myself, I would."

Draco did not speak. He was still crying quietly, shaking slightly. The door burst open, and Pansy Parkinson burst in.

"Oh, my sweet Draco!" she cried dramatically, rushing toward them. "What has that monster done to you?"

"Out!" Madam Pomfrey stood and pointed toward the door. "You may return when I am through patching him up! Out, out, out."

Snape followed Pansy Parkinson to the hall, where she sat on the floor and whined loudly and nasally about how utterly unfair it was to be cast out when she was the boy's loving and devoted girlfriend of three whole years. Snape rolled his eyes… bloody teenagers and their dramatics.

He then sped back down to the bathroom to deal with Potter. He demanded the boy's potions textbook, opened it, and, for a fleeting second, considered using Sectumsempra himself, on the pages in front of him. There was nothing he hated quite like he hated being lied to.

"This is your copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ , is it, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry, breathing hard.

"You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry truculently.

"This is the copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?"

"Yes," said Harry firmly.

"Then why," asked Snape, "does it have the name 'Roonil Wazlib' written inside the front cover?"

Harry's heart missed a beat. "That's my nickname," he said stupidly.

 _For fuck's sake._

How could Lily Evans have produced such an incredibly idiotic son? Especially as James Potter, as much as Snape hated him, hadn't been an idiot. A bully, a showoff, a rapist, a bell-end… but not an idiot.

No punishment could possibly be harsh enough, but to avoid the risk of getting identified as the creator of that spell or the owner of Potter's real textbook, he came up with what he thought was sufficient, and to his surprise, McGonagall agreed, stating she thought the boy was lucky to avoid expulsion.

Good.

The moment Severus returned to his office, he hurriedly scrawled a note for Narcissa on parchment and snapped his fingers for a house elf. The one who appeared was not of his choosing, but would have to do.

"Take this to Narcissa Malfoy. Do not depart until she has read it."

"Yes, Professor."

"Go! Now!"

The moment the elf disapparated, he buried his head in his hands.

The boy had his potions book. He'd never been so sure of anything in his life.

And it had nearly killed his own godson, the only child Narcissa had left, on the anniversary of her daughter's death.

Just another in a series of mistakes.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1996**

 **(one year ago)**

"I shall first implant a false vision into his head."

The Dark Lord looked around the table at his followers, those in his inner circle who were being entrusted with this particular task: Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Lucius, and Antonin. He may have more go to the Ministry, he'd not yet decided, but these were five he was placing the bulk of his trust in, the five who would get him what he needed. They were in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, his current home.

"If he feels his dear godfather is in danger, he'll have no choice but to rush into battle to save the man." The Dark Lord nodded toward Bellatrix and Lucius, who sat side-by-side. "According to Bella, love is a powerful emotion, one that will compel the boy to act, and thanks to Lucius' wife and her extended family's old house elf, we know Potter does, indeed, love Sirius Black."

"Cissy is honored to have been of service to you, my Lord," said Bellatrix. "As am I."

"Yes, thank you. I'll be presenting the attack scene through the eyes of the snake while Potter is dreaming…" He stroked Nagini's head. She hissed. "He will not expect to find a resistance in the Department of Mysteries, and will therefore come alone."

"All due respect, my Lord…" Lucius gripped the handle of his cane so hard his knuckles were white, the only sign he was less confident than he should be. "Potter never does anything on his own. He has the Mudblood girl to his right and the Weasley boy to his left at all times. The little trio is inseparable."

"Is that so?" asked the Dark Lord curiously, as if this were news to him, though Bella had said precisely the same thing a fortnight ago, when they were in bed.

"Fits with everything we've learned about him, my Lord," agreed Rodolphus. "I'd be surprised if he can wipe his own arse without their assistance."

Bellatrix snorted, Lucius hid a smile, and Rabastan laughed right out loud, but Dolohov looked annoyed by his comrade for his flippancy – no surprise, as he was a humorless man, especially when it came to preparing for battle.

"I believe we can manage his mates, though, can't we?" the Dark Lord asked coldly. "What harm could a halfwit Weasley boy and a Mudblood girl _possibly_ bring us?"

"The girl is top of her year," said Lucius. "Draco has told his mother and me all about her. Hermione Granger is her name. Brilliant in the classroom, talented with a wand, considers herself an activist. She-"

"Are we to sit here debating the abilities of a fifteen-year-old girl as if she is any match for any of us?" Bellatrix tossed her hair, looking highly affronted. "As though some perky little Muggleborn swot could pose a danger?" She shook her head vehemently, disgusted. "Please, let me go alone, my Lord. I'll kill the friends, get the Prophecy, and bring Potter back here to the Manor for you to manage in person. I don't need these four there to get in my way."

"Teamwork is an essential skill," said the Dark Lord (rich coming from a loner like him). "It would behoove you to play nicely with others, Bellatrix."

"I am quite capable of playing nicely with others whom I like, value, and respect, my Lord." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "But this sorry lot…"

"Oh, fuck me," muttered Rodolphus, sneering.

"No, thank you," said Bellatrix cheekily.

"Children, children." The Dark Lord held up his hands. "You may go, all of you, and we shall reconvene in one month to solidify our plans and set the date. In the interim, you all know what you should be doing."

"Yes, my Lord," answered the four men in unison. Bellatrix nodded.

"Go."

When Bellatrix was almost to the door, he called her back.

"A word, Mrs. Lestrange?"

She halted. The others departed, closing the door behind them. She turned, trepidation evident on her face, as she hated it when he used her (former) married name. But he was smiling.

"Come."

She obeyed.

He stood, trapping her between his body and the table. "I am sending you with a small contingency, but it is _you_ in whom I place my trust. The success of this endeavor is entirely on your shoulders, my Bella."

"Yes, my Lord."

He lifted her by the waist, settling her on the edge of the table, thrust up her long skirt, grabbed her by the outer thighs, and yanked her toward him until they were in one of her favorite sexual positions. He thrust against her, buried his face in her hair, and groaned.

"I trust _you_ , Bella. Only you. You understand that, don't you? You're the only one."

She stroked the back of his neck with her long nails and smiled.

"Yes, my Lord."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 May, 1997**

 **(the present)**

She trusted him.

She had to.

He was the only one she could truly trust. Of that, she was certain.

But he'd said she shouldn't.

Why?

Because he'd gotten carried away? Because he'd touched and kissed her and, however briefly, treated her as his equal rather than his pupil? But she'd welcomed that, she'd wanted it. Why had he pulled away?

"Salazar's sins," she murmured. "Who _are_ you, Hermione?"

"Speaking to yourself out loud?"

Narcissa's voice made Hermione jolt. She hadn't heard the woman coming down the stairs.

"Good afternoon, Auntie. Here for tea?"

"As usual, though I apologize for my tardiness. It's nearly dinnertime." Narcissa let herself in the cell, closed the door behind her, and set the tray down on the desk/table. As she stirred her milk and tea, she said too-casually, "You… witnessed my memory yesterday?"

"I did. It was awful."

"I know." Narcissa couldn't make eye contact. "I would appreciate it if you'd not mention what you saw to anyone. Lucius does not know. Draco does not know. Only you and I, Severus, Bella, and the Dark Lord. Please keep it between us."

"Yes, Auntie." Hermione had no desire to tell anyone, not ever. "Auntie, may I ask what happened to Diana?"

Narcissa nodded. Her nose twitched, and Hermione feared she might cry.

"I thought you'd ask about her. The short story is that she died. I killed her. It was entirely my fault. It was not on purpose, but that hardly matters, does it?" She sniffled, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'd rather not share the details, if you don't mind."

"Of course." But she _did_ mind. Her mind was reeling.

Narcissa changed the subject.

"I know Severus spent the night here. Is there anything else I ought to know? Or that your mother should know?"

"No." Hermione's cheeks went warm. "I asked him to stay, to... to comfort me... but nothing happened."

"Should something happen, I hope you know you can tell me." Narcissa finally brought her gaze up to meet that of her niece. "Severus is… he has many good qualities, but he's never been good with… women. His judgment is… He…" She cleared her throat. "He can brew you a birth control potion, should you need one, but I implore you to think before you act – you're young, and he's…"

"Nothing happened, Auntie!" Hermione could hear how defensive she sounded, how immature, how snippy. She took a deep breath and tried again. "I was upset after seeing the memories. Mother was summoned away by the Dark Lord. I asked him to stay with me. That was all."

"Oh." She sipped the tea and set down her mug to reach for a scone. "I used to ask the same of him, and he was always a gentleman. But…"

"But…?"

Narcissa next words came out in a rush. "But you're at an age at which girls begin to have certain feelings and urges, and there's nothing wrong with that, but I worry about you, and in particular about you alone down here with him, and I realize 'things happen' and this may not be something you'd wish to discuss with your mother, thus if you have any questions, please feel free to ask them of me." She smeared clotted cream on the lavender scone. "That's all."

"Oh!" Hermione couldn't suppress her surprise. "Well, er… thank you."

Narcissa changed the subject to Arithmancy, which had been one of her favorite subjects back at Hogwarts, and they were deep in discussion when a loud POP made them both jump.

A house elf had apparated into the cellar.

"YOU!" Narcissa leapt up, pointing a finger at the elf, who stood on the end of Hermione's bed. "Traitorous little elf, what are you doing here?"

"Dobby!" gasped Hermione. He dropped the parchment in his hands and tugged at his ears excitedly.

"Miss Hermione Granger! Miss Granger, here, alive!"

Narcissa paled. "You are forbidden from mentioning her presence to anyone, Dobby!"

"Mistress Malfoy does not control Dobby any longer!" He squeaked defiantly. "Dobby is a free elf!"

"But if you… if you tell anyone she's here… she'll be killed!"

"Killed?" He looked to Hermione for confirmation. Though she did not know whether this was true, she nodded.

"Why are you in my home, Dobby?"

"Dobby has a letter from Professor Snape." He picked it up and held it out. "Dobby cannot leave until Mistress reads it."

Narcissa took it from him, unfurled the parchment, and went even paler. She dropped into her chair as if lightheaded.

"What is it?" breathed Hermione.

Narcissa handed her the parchment.

 _Narcissa,_

 _Draco has been injured in a brutal, unprovoked attack, as confirmed by one of the ghosts (Moaning Myrtle) who witnessed the altercation. I believe Potter used 'Sectumsempra' against him – I know you are familiar with that particular curse – but thankfully his wand skills are rudimentary at best, thus it is not as bad as it could have been (with no chance it will prove fatal and low risk for infection)._

 _Draco has perhaps a dozen deep slash wounds across his face and torso, which I healed the best I could before turning him over to Madam Pomfrey. He will be in the hospital wing for at least one night, possibly two, and she has requested you be informed. We will do what we can to ensure there is no permanent scarring._

 _No need to come to Hogwarts, though, knowing you, you'll be here before I'm through coming up with Potter's punishment. Go directly to the hospital wing. Dumbledore is aware, and Madam Pomfrey will be expecting you._

 _-Severus_

 _PS: I am aware of the date. If you have been drinking, DO NOT COME TO HOGWARTS. It isn't safe._

"Mistress has read it? Dobby can go?"

"Yes, Dobby." Narcissa slipped it into her pocket. "But don't breathe a word about Hermione."

He looked uneasily toward Hermione, who reached out to squeeze his small hand.

"It has to be this way," she said softly. "If you care about me, you'll keep this a secret, even from Dumbledore and Harry and Ron. Promise?"

"Promise!" squeaked Dobby. With one quick final glance at Narcissa, he dropped Hermione's hand and disapparated.

Narcissa immediately sprung to her feet and rushed to the cell door.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, I have to go."

"Yes, I know, I understand! I hope he's alright!"

Narcissa eyes were watery again when she turned back to her niece. She forced a small smile and nodded. "Me, too."

Hermione felt sick as she watched her aunt rush toward the stairs. It was the same sickness she'd been feeling since seeing the memories yesterday, compounded by the realization that Harry might be more like James Potter than she realized. She'd spent half the night having nightmares and waking up, then convincing herself Harry and Neville were nothing like their fathers because neither would ever purposely bring pain upon another person like that until she drifted back to sleep.

She sipped the tea and ate the scones and tried to ignore that gnawing feeling in the pit of her gut.

Harry had attacked Draco, unprovoked, with a curse that – if performed by a more competent wizard – could have _killed_ him? What had become of Harry in her absence? Was he the boy Professor Snape always thought him to be? The spitting image of his father?

And how could Dumbledore and the Order have considered James Potter and Sirius Black and Frank Longbottom heroes, great man who did great things, when what they did to Narcissa was so beyond horrible words could not describe it? Had Dumbledore not known? But he knew everything. So had he simply looked the other way… She glanced at the bound manuscript. Had Dumbledore looked away "for the greater good"?

How could she trust _anyone_ if she could not trust Dumbledore, Harry, or Snape?

She finished the last scone, set down her empty mug, and fell back onto the bed.

She felt more confused and conflicted than ever.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Sorry for the lateness of this chapter! I thought I had posted it Friday but when I went on today to see if anyone reviewed and no one had, I realized I'd uploaded the chapter, but never updated it! I need Neville's Remembrall, I swear. Here it is now, though, and look for the next one on Tuesday night.

Note: Harry probably fought with Draco in the bathroom on May 6th, given the timeline of events in HBP (and according to the HP-Lexicon) but I don't think it matters to move it up by a few days. Related, some dialogue was borrowed from HBP in this chapter.

Also, as I said in the last chapter's A/N, the galleon will be better explained later – but I love your guesses!

To those of you who pointed out that Snape is not a Mudblood, technically, you're right, but in her moment of anger I don't think Bellatrix would necessarily care about the distinction and it's a good way for her to degrade Severus, the half-blood. I hope it didn't take you out of the story :)

Thanks for reading, reviewing, adding to faves, following, and sending PMs! I love them all!

 **-AL**

 **PS:** The next review will be my 500th for this fic and I'm super excited about it! As a thank you, I've love to pick one person who reviews this chapter (C16) and invite you to submit to me a one-shot request. Can featuring any pairing (or no pairing), theme, or setting/year so long as one of the main characters is a main character from this fic – Snape, Hermione, Bellatrix, Narcissa, Voldemort, Tonks, or Andromeda. I haven't done this before but I've seen it done and think it seems like a fun idea and a way of giving back. No need to post a prompt in a review – on Tuesday night, when I post the next chapter, I'll PM one person and ask if they want to send an idea (and if you don't want to send an idea, no worries!).

 **Thanks!**

* * *

 **Upcoming Chapter Hints -**

 **Chapter Seventeen:** A visit with Andromeda Tonks proves _very_ interesting.

 **Chapter Eighteen:** Bellatrix takes Hermione back to Hogwarts… for just one night.


	18. QUESTIONS ANSWERED

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:**

 **QUESTIONS ANSWERED**

 **12 June 1997**

 **(the present)**

Some six weeks had passed since the morning she woke up in the professor's arms, only to be kissed and touched and summarily rejected by him, and he'd been a perfect gentleman ever since.

But something had changed.

They were talking more. Not only about her lessons, but about everything.

He told her a little about Hogwarts, about what was really happening there. Harry had, somehow, become a potions expert in her absence. He knew the boy was up to something and suspected he was using Severus' old textbook.

"It was _my_ spell he used to attack Draco," he confessed one night, after a long discussion about the benefits and dangers of Cheering Charms and an Occlumency lesson. "I invented it in my youth, with the intention of using it against Potter and Black, who'd been targeting me since the Hogwarts Express first year."

"Why did you join the Death Eaters, sir? I know you told me you wanted a place to belong, but surely you knew–"

"Knew what they were capable of?" He shrugged. "I thought you understood now that atrocities have been committed on both sides."

"Yes, sir, but only one sides seeks to eradicate the other entirely."

A slight smile crept slowly across his lips. "Make no mistake, Miss Black. Dumbledore's side would see purebloods eradicated just as surely as the Dark Lord's would Muggleborns. With every encouraged marriage between a witch or wizard and a Muggle or Muggleborn, more witches and wizards with 'impure' blood are created. Mixed blood wizards and witches already greatly outnumber purebloods, and Muggles outnumber us all. What do you think your mother is so afraid of? Your aunt and uncle? As of 1935, only twenty-eight completely pureblood lines were still in existence. Since then, four have fallen off the list entirely, while nearly all others have been in some way corrupted – including yours. With the death of Sirius Black, that line has ended. The Lestranges are unlikely to produce children, as Rodolphus is married to your mother and Rabastan is…"

"Is in Azkaban?"

"Is homosexual."

"Oh."

"The Malfoys have Draco, but should anything happen to him, that family name would die, too, as Lucius' only siblings were sisters."

"Do his sisters have children?" she asked, resting her elbows on the desk and leaning forward. She smiled when he reached out to gently run his fingertips up and down her arm. He'd been doing this lately – touching her, perfectly innocently, almost as if he didn't even realize he was doing so – and she liked it.

"Yes. Lillia is married to a Shacklebolt, the cousin of Kingsley from the Order, and they have four children. The Shacklebolt line remains pure, though Kingsley, his father, and his cousin are the only males left. Lucretia Malfoy married the brother of Pansy Parkinson's mother – they're both hoping Draco ends up with Pansy – but they've been unable to have children, and Lavinia wed a Death Eater by the name of Samuel Selwyn. Two sons, both still in nappies, and a daughter starting Hogwarts next year. Selwyn and I shared a dorm. He was a dull, brainless boy who snored."

"So he has three sisters?"

"Four." Severus leaned back in the chair, making himself comfortable. "Three older, and one much younger, Aurora, who is about ten or twelve years older than you are. But she doesn't quite count."

"They named their children Lillia, Lucretia, Lavinia, Lucius... and Aurora."

"Aurora... Aurora was born while Lillia was still at Hogwarts. She took a year off to be 'home schooled' by his grandmother in France due to an undisclosed 'illness,' and shortly after she returned they announced they'd just had a baby girl - which came as a surprise as no one knew they were expecting."

"Oh!" Hermione leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, eager for more gossip. "So Lillia's youngest sister is really her daughter?"

"They said they Lillia her name the baby in celebration that she'd survived her unnamed malady. Her other children's names start with A, too. She hasn't exactly been subtle about it." He chuckled. "There was talk, of course, but the Malfoys had the power and money to squash it, so they did."

" _This_ is the History of Magic I should be learning," said Hermione. "Not more rubbish on goblin rebellions."

He chuckled again. "The Dark Lord will be pleased by your interest in the subject."

"It's fascinating, though, isn't it?" She clutched his hand and was pleased when he did not pull away. "I mean, not the secret baby part, though that too. But both sides want the same thing – to protect themselves, to stay alive, not to see their kind eradicated. And both sides have done terrible things to try and make that happen. Both sides see winning the war as absolutely fundamental to their survival. No matter which side wins, the other side will be forever damaged – there will be no coming back from it."

"True."

"So which side?" She gripped his hand more tightly, digging her short nails into the back. "Which side should win? Which victor would cause less damage to the other?"

He rubbed his thumb in small circles between her thumb and forefinger, calming her enough that she quit with the nails, though she did not release his hand.

"The other side, regardless of which it is, will be forever damaged, as you said."

"Either the purebloods die out – as they might do anyway – or the Muggleborns get cast out… or, worse, killed. If you're able to see the conflict objectively, from the center, it's plainly a no-win situation."

"Such is war." He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "And, on that note, I must depart. Dumbledore has been questioning me about where I go so frequently at 'all hours of the night.' Thanks to my quick-thinking and Occlumency skills, he believes I have a girlfriend."

For no good reason, her cheeks went pink.

"Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1957**

 **(forty years ago)**

Six-year-old Bellatrix grinned at her reflection in the giant picture window of the Diagon Alley bookshop. She hated dress shopping with her mother, but loved stopping in to see and smell and touch the books, especially as, if she was particularly well-behaved, she'd be permitted to select one to bring home. Today, though, was a special day – her birthday – and she was looking forward to being spoiled at her party later.

Toddler Cissy, in her pram, was sucking her thumb and cuddling her doll and looking adorable, as usual, while four-year-old Andromeda wiggled and whined.

"Mummy!" She tugged at their mother's dress. "I need to use the you-know-what!"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Her little sister must have a bladder smaller than that of a squirrel, considering how often she had to 'go.'

"Excuse me a moment, Endora." Mummy turned away from her friend, Mrs. Selwyn, and frowned down at her middle daughter. "Can't you hold it?" she whispered.

Andromeda shook her head.

"Take her to the ice cream parlor," suggested Mrs. Selwyn, who was balancing her own daughter, three-year-old Mercy, on her hip. "We just stopped off there ourselves."

"Yes, of course." Mummy was smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes. Bella's lower lip jutted out. She wanted the bookstore. She'd been waiting!

"Mummmmyyyy!" Andromeda tugged her mother's dress again. "Nowwww!"

"Excuse us, Endora."

"Of course, Druella. We'll see you this afternoon. Mercy is looking forward to the party. She has a beautiful new dress! Had it custom made. Picking it up now."

"How very lovely!" said Mummy, but her words were as fake as her smile. "See you then!"

She pushed the pram and walked quickly, Andromeda on her heels. Bellatrix trailed slowly behind, but a movement in the bookshop caught her eye, and she stopped. What harm would it be to wait here for Mummy and her sisters to return?

She stepped into Flourish and Blotts.

There was a man there, perusing the stacks. He wore a wizard's robe, open, over a smart tan suit. His hair was combed to the side and he looked perfectly normal, but there was something… not quite right… about his eyes. When he glanced at Bella, the pupils almost looked red. But she must have imagined it, for he blinked and they turned back to brown, cinnamon brown, and then he was staring back down at the book in his hand.

"Anything I can help you find, sir?" asked the shop girl, approaching. "For you or your… daughter?"

He glanced at Bella again.

"Not mine." He tucked the book under his arm. Now Bella could see the cover: Magick Moste Evile. "I am looking for more on wizarding genealogy, in particular, the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Do you have a copy of the original tome in which it was printed? Mid-1930s?"

"Yes, we have one copy! An original, first printing, near-mint condition." Her smile faltered. "But I have to be honest, sir, it's rather expensive.

"I can afford it, no matter the price." He glanced once more down at Bella, who couldn't help staring up at him – she was hoping to see his eyes go red again – but, seemingly deciding she was nothing worth looking at, he turned and followed the shop girl.

When Mummy returned, she was not happy that her daughter hadn't followed to the ice cream parlor.

"I nearly had a heart attack!" she scolded, grabbing Bella roughly by the arm. "What were you thinking, wandering about alone?"

"I saw a man with red eyes," said Bella. "Can magic make my eyes go red?"

"Why not?" said Druella testily. "Magic made your aunt Walburga's hair go red… Magic, and a half-galleon of bleach and dye."

Bella did not understand what this meant, but she put it out of her mind as she searched for the book that would be her best birthday present, eventually settling on a long illustrated novel about Hogwarts' real-life founders Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw, who, according to the description on the back, were quite in love but forbidden to marry. According to the jacket, _"Finally, after all these centuries of secrecy,_ this _is their story."_

"Seems a bit mature for you," said Druella, taking it from her to flip through. "This would be better suited for an eleven or twelve-year-old. What about one of these picture books? Some of them have a great number of words. Look, here's one about a magic bunny! Bitty the Bunny Bops to Belgium – there's a whole series about her traveling the world. Here's Bitty the Bunny Bikes Through Bangladesh, Bitty the Bunny Bustles About Bulgaria, Bitty the Bunny Bakes in Brunei..."

"No, Mummy, please!" begged little Bella, taking back the thick book about the Founders. "I want this one, only this one!" She sighed and hugged the book to her chest, her hands pressed over the cover, which depicted a colored drawing of beautiful Ravenclaw staring adoringly into the eyes of handsome Slytherin. Bella grinned hopefully up at her mother. "Please, Mummy? It's ever so romantic!"

Druella couldn't help but smile "'Ever so romantic?' Oh, dear." She chuckled. "What an odd little girl I have. But it's _your_ birthday. If that's what you want, it's what we'll get!" She pushed Cissy's pram toward the checkout counter.

"Mummy?" Andromeda tugged their mother's dress. "Mummy, I have to 'go' again."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Andromeda was supposed to be at work, but she'd Flooed her boss to say she wasn't feeling well and would try to make it in after lunch. Now she was straddling the lap of a very handsome man ten years her junior, snogging like teenagers with her dress unbuttoned to her waist. She was contemplating whether she should fuck him right there on the couch, or take him to bed.

"Does your husband know you do this?" he asked. He squeezed her arse with one hand and breast with the other, and thrust up against her.

"Does he know I fuck other men while he's at work?" She laughed. "Of course not. What would be the fun in that? But we have an understanding. I do no worse to him than he does to me." She bent down to nip at his neck, drawing from him a low growl. "He does what he wants and I do what I want and right now, what I want is you." _(You, and information.)_

"You… are… beautiful…"

"I know."

"Merlin's balls, Andromeda!" He was ready; she could tell. She slipped her hand over the bulge in his pants, stroking his length through the material. She might make him come before they'd even started…

"Do you like this?" she asked, rubbing harder, faster, as he lapped at her breasts above the line of her bra. "Do you want me to touch you? Do you want to touch me?"

"Mm-hm…" He pushed away her hand, gripped her hips, and held her down, encouraging her to grind against him. He was hard, desperate, on the edge… "Andromeda… I need you… I need you…"

"Do you want to fuck me?" she asked, her lips brushing against his earlobe. "Do you want your cock in my pussy? Do you want me to ride you until you explode?"

"Fuck… yes… yes!"

"Yes." She began unfastened his wizard's robe. Moments later, she'd freed him from the confines of the trousers underneath, and was lowering herself onto him.

He let out a long, low groan.

"Fuck, woman. Yes." He tipped back his head. "You'll be the death of me."

"I hope so, Kingsley." She took hold of his chin and kissed him hard. "That's the plan."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1981**

 **(16 years ago)**

It was her birthday.

And like the good long-term lover he was, he fully intended to buy her a gift.

But what might she like?

What did she enjoy?

Sex, but he could hardly find that in a store (not any store he'd want to visit, anyway).

Muggle-baiting and torturing Mudbloods, but how could he wrap that up with a bow?

Firewhisky, but that always made her silly and he preferred her sober.

Books?

He smiled.

She liked books. She especially liked those books with the stupid covers featuring half-naked wizards and buxom witches in gothic aristocratic or Victorian dresses.

All it would take was a few drops of Polyjuice potion so he could disguise himself, and he could step into Flourish and Blotts and peruse the smut section for the first time in his adult life. But which follower should he turn himself into? He kept a small glass vial with a few hairs from each of those in his inner circle for just this sort of occasion.

Today, he decided, he'd be young Severus Snape. The thought of homely, awkward, ornery Snape leafing through such 'literature' in public greatly amused him, and given how reclusive the sullen boy had become since his mother's death and his father's arrest, there was little chance they'd run into each other.

With a smirk, he dropped one long black hair into the Polyjuice and took a long swig. He should only need an hour or two in this disguise.

Off to the bookshop.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape was in a foul mood, which seemed unfair, given the very good mood he'd been in just last night. He'd had an excellent Occlumency session with Hermione, who was, unsurprisingly, a far better pupil than Potter, followed by engaging conversation. Then he'd returned to Hogwarts shortly before midnight and had no trouble falling asleep, for a nice change. He'd awoken early, hardly registered that it was Friday the thirteenth, and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. There, his disposition went sour. More so than usual, anyway.

"Did you hear?" Minerva asked as he passed her the milk for her coffee.

"Hear…?"

"Nymphadora and Remus have gotten married."

"Oh?" He sneered and stabbed with sausage with a little more force than was necessary. "When?"

"On Wednesday." Minerva poured the milk and reached for the sugar. "Eloped."

"How romantic."

"Stop that." She added two cubes to her coffee. "I always thought you had an interest in her. No?"

"'Interest' is putting it strongly," he said. "I _tolerated_ her."

"It would do you well to consider settling down too. You're not as young as you once were." She sipped the coffee and gave him a Look. "You may be less sullen were you not going through life as a loner."

"I prefer life as a loner, thank you," he sniped. Minerva, taking the hint, pursed her lips, then turned to talk to Dumbledore instead.

 _Settle down?_ He'd never even had a girlfriend. His many years, off-and-on sexual relationship with Nymphadora was the closest he'd come to a regular woman, and while he didn't desire her as anything more than an occasional fuck, it bothered him knowing Lupin would have her now. She got what she wanted, though, didn't she? To marry the werewolf who didn't want her. Why did so many people pursue those who didn't want them? It made sense for him – for Severus – of course, as it was unlikely there were many women out there… _if any_ … who did want him. But the Metamorph? She could be anyone, and therefore have anyone. Except, until now, Remus Lupin, apparently. What did Lupin have that was so special? Aside from the ability to turn into a murderous monster at every full moon? Hell, Severus could do that. Not the growing-hair-and-fangs-and-smelling-like-a-rabid-dog part, but the murdering people under the moon part. Not that he had the strong urge to murder anyone – the only people he'd have wanted to murder were already dead, or, in Frank's case, worse than dead – but he wouldn't mind having some curvy little bint panting after _him_.

Some brown-haired, cinnamon-eyed, curvy little know-it-all with two mad parents and bars on her bedroom door.

No.

He had to put that out of his head. Permanently. But especially while sitting here, just two seats down from Dumbledore.

 _She's dead,_ he reminded himself. _Hermione Granger is dead._

But the girl in the cellar…

She was another story.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"Get up, get dressed." Bellatrix woke Hermione, who'd slept through breakfast, and tossed a blouse and skirt on the end of her bed. "We're going out."

"Out?" Hermione's heart fluttered with nervous excitement. "Out, as in, out of the Manor?"

"Yes, out of the Manor. Get dressed. And hurry. I'm on a mission."

"A mission for the Dark Lord?"

"A mission for myself." Bellatrix stood in front of Hermione's full-length freestanding mirror and adjusted her sleeves. She was wearing her favorite dress, the one she'd worn when they broke into the Ministry, as she considered it good luck (even though they hadn't gotten the Prophecy).

"Does the Dark Lord know we're going?"

"No, but he's away for at least two days, so I'm not worried." Bellatrix scratched at her chest above the neckline of her corset, indicating she was, indeed, worried. "He won't know we've left, and we'll return in a few hours. We have to pay someone a visit, and then, if all goes well, we'll have lunch."

"Lunch?"

"Yes, you know, lunch? The day's middle meal, the one _you_ typically eat alone."

Hermione, who was tugging on her nylons, rolled her eyes. "I'm familiar with lunch, thanks."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Why are you snapping at me?"

"I'm not!" Bellatrix threw up her hands, already exasperated. Why couldn't she have found her daughter when she was a toddler instead of a teenager? Girls were absolutely infuriating from the age of thirteen on, according to her own mother.

"Just be thankful they're not boys," her aunt Walburga had replied. "The house elves refuse to clean the boys' rooms now that they may find crusty socks hidden between the bedclothes. They turn thirteen and forget how to scourgify anything."

"Revolting," Bellatrix had said at the time. It was 1973, Andromeda had run away the year before, and Narcissa, despite being nearly eighteen, hadn't gotten it.

"Why are their socks crusty? Because their feet sweat?"

"You'll understand someday," Walburga had said, patting her knee. "When you have sons."

Bellatrix wondered whether this was an issue with Draco, but immediately decided she did not want to know.

"Hurry!" she urged Hermione, who was still buttoning her blouse, her back to Bella. "We haven't got all day! Are you wearing a chemise under that? It's white. You should always wear a chemise under a white blouse unless you intend to wear a sweater over it. White can become see-through in bright sun, or if it rains."

"I'm wearing one," said Hermione. Her other mother had taught her the same thing the summer they bought her first bra, during the whole 'you're becoming a woman' conversation. Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes, but she quickly repressed the memory, and with it, her emotions.

"I have an Invisibility Cloak. It's not like the one Potter has – just a disillusionment charm on a throw blanket – but it'll do for today. You'll wear it as we approach and enter the home, but I'll hold your wrist the entire time. You won't have a wand, but if anything goes wrong, I'll protect you."

"What could go wrong?" asked Hermione anxiously. "Where are we going?"

"Nothing will go wrong. Come along." She opened the cell door and motioned for Hermione to follow her.

When they stepped outside, Hermione nearly fell to her knees. She was overwhelmed, overcome. She couldn't move.

"What is it?" asked Bellatrix, impatiently.

"I haven't seen the sun – the real sun – in almost a year." Hermione turned up her face, basking in the heat and light. 360 days ago she'd been outside for the last time, on her way to the Ministry of Magic on the back of a thestral with five of her friends, on a mission she thought was futile. Anger burned inside her as she remembered warning Harry that You-Know-Who was probably just using him, that was the sort of thing he did, just like luring him into the Chamber of Secrets with Ginny. Her gut had told her it was a trick, but had she listened to her gut? No. She'd listened to Harry. Easily-manipulated Harry. Easily-provoked Harry. Harry, who seemed to forget her pretty fast. Harry, who viciously attacked Draco without cause.

She'd warned him and Ron that the Dark Lord could be setting them up, using his connection to Sirius to drag him away from the safety of Hogwarts to the danger of the Department of Mysteries, where Dolohov's curse nearly killed her, and Rodolphus Lestrange tried to rape her, and where Bellatrix Black kidnapped her.

This was all Harry's fault. It was Harry's fault Sirius was dead. It was Harry's fault she and their friends had been attacked. It was Harry's fault she hadn't stepped foot outside in five days shy of a year.

Her fists clenched as she felt a rage burning inside her, a rage hotter than the summer sun warming her face. It filled her from her toes to her the top of her head, from her clenched fists to her shoulders, from the inside out. She screamed and thrust her hands forward, sending a fireball flying. It connected with a tree by the gate, causing it to catch fire, which Bellatrix quickly put out using Aquamenti.

"Hermione," Bellatrix said softly, looking her over with concern. "Hermione…?"

"I've been in a cell for an entire year." She opened her eyes and met the gaze of her mother.

There was no light in her cinnamon brown eyes in this moment, no warmth... just little dancing flecks of red, as if reflected from a fire that had already been put out. Bellatrix slunk back slightly. That furious look in her eyes… she looked like her father.

"I know how it is to go without seeing the sun," Bellatrix said softly. "In the cell in which I spent _most_ of my Azkaban years, I had no window. No natural light. When the Dark Lord freed me, at first, I rejoiced. Then, I cried. Months passed before I could go out without causing pain to my eyes. That first time, though it was January, it burned my skin. I thought… I thought, with you going to the pool, with the enchanted ceiling, and with the enchanted window in your bedroom, and other windows around Malfoy Manor, I thought…"

"It's fine," said Hermione, but her voice was sharp. It was not fine.

"I've done all I could for you," insisted Bellatrix, clearly telling the truth. "I obtained permission for you to use the pool and the library, and to wander the first floor without escort. To be tutored to keep up with your year, and to be taught dark magic Hogwarts won't even put on their N.E.W.T. curriculum. I've ensured you were well-fed and cared for, given clothes and bedding and the comforts of a real home, the enchanted window, birthday and Christmas presents, holiday dinners, time spent with family. I ensured your adoptive parents were safe and not hurting – not physically or emotionally – in your absence. I risked my life and freedom to bring you your cat so you'd not feel alone when Cissy and I couldn't be there." She reached out to take Hermione's hand and spoke words she'd previously only ever said to the Dark Lord. "I've loved you as I've never loved anyone."

"I know." Hermione closed her eyes and again tipped her face up to feel the sun, even though it kind of burned… even though it kind of hurt… even though it kind of made her want to cry. "I know you love me, Mother, and I appreciate all you've done… but I've missed this. I've missed this."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1996**

 **(one year ago)**

O.W.L.s started on the ninth, Monday, and Hermione knew she would not sleep until they were over. There was no time. No time to sleep. Only time to study. Only study, no sleep. Study, study, study. Perfect marks wouldn't come to those who slept. Now it was Friday, end of Week One. She'd just finished Ancient Runes, her only exam for the day, and was headed back to the Gryffindor Common Room to find Ron and Harry. And, if she was being honest with herself, to grab her Potions book and start studying for the first exam on Monday.

"How was it?" asked Neville, falling into step beside her. "Arithmancy?"

"Ancient Runes." She straightened the strap of her messenger bag. "I think I did alright, maybe an E, possibly and A, definitely not an O. I was trying for an O but I'm sure I got question one-hundred-twelve wrong, and I think I mixed up the meanings for Ehwaz and Eihwaz. No, I _know_ I mixed them up." She stopped walking and swore so furiously Neville took a giant step to his left, away from her. "I definitely mixed them up! One means 'defense' and the other-"

"It's just one question," he said.

"Sorry, Neville." She brushed her hair back from her face. "Frustrated, that's all. Let's go."

They continued together toward Gryffindor tower, not speaking. They were in sight of the Fat Lady's portrait when Neville halted, reached out, and grabbed Hermione's wrist.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Hermione. You know that, right? _Everyone_. No one is perfect."

"I know," she said, somehow looking at once both arrogant and self-deprecating. "But _I'm_ not everyone."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Andromeda decided against taking the man to her bedroom, to the bed she shared with her husband of nearly twenty-five years. Instead, she fucked him right there on the couch, with her skirt hiked up to her waist and his robe parted with trousers unfastened. She bounced rhythmically, forcefully, fast… and he loved every moment of it.

"Fuck… yes… yes…" he groaned, clutching her hips hard enough to leave bruises, enjoying the way her breasts – hanging out of the unbuttoned front of her navy and white polka dot dress – jiggled in front of his eyes. He buried his face between them, breathing deeply, and groaned again as she switched to a slower, deep grinding motion, taking him all the way, leaning back with one hand on his knee, the other holding his shoulder.

She assured him she was on the potion before he came inside her, and she didn't climb off right away. Rather she relaxed with her chest against his, his face buried in the crook of her neck, hidden by her hair. She lightly scritched at the back of his bald head and waited for her rapid heart rate to become even and regular.

She was still resting on him, eyes closed, when the front door of her home burst open. She leapt to her feet, he did the same, but in one fluid motion she was knocked back against the wall and he was Stupified. He collapsed onto his back on the floor, his robe still parted, leaving him most awkwardly exposed.

"Merlin's beard!" cried Andromeda. "Bellatrix!"

"Am I interrupting?"

"Are you inter…? Yes! Yes, you're interrupt… You Stupified him! What is wrong with…? Close the bloody door, I have neighbors!" Her eye caught a flurry of movement by the door, which quickly disappeared. She glanced to her right, at a large painting on the wall, as her lips curled into a smile, and looked back at the empty space beside her sister. "Oh. Good morning, Hermione, dear. It's been a long time."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"I'm alone," insisted Bellatrix.

"Happy birthday, Bella," replied Andromeda casually, as if her sister dropped in all the time, insisting she was alone. "Forty-six today, and yet you don't like a day over fifty."

"Sod off."

"Kind of you to drop in. But I'd have thought you'd prefer spending this milestone with people who like you... there _are_ people who like you, aren't there?"

"I swear to all the gods of Ancient Greece, Andromeda, if you push me..."

"I've been expecting you. Honestly, I'm surprised it took you this long to come. But since you're here now... what do you want?"

"I believe you know. You have a lot of explaining to do." Bellatrix kept her wand trained on her younger sister, ready to strike should the need arise, but Andromeda did not go for her own. "You've been pestering Snape for near on a year, insisting my dead daughter is still alive."

"She _is_ alive." Andromeda folded her arms and again looked to the empty space to Bella's right. "Alive and here in my home. Hermione, dear, I said hello. It's only polite you greet me in return. Or hasn't Mummy taught you any manners?"

"Salazar's sins." Bellatrix lowered her wand. "Hermione, off with the cloak."

Hermione obeyed, revealing herself to her aunt. She was surprised momentarily by the woman's resemblance to her mother. Her hair, like Bella's, was wild and curly and black, with a few silvery strands woven here and there to indicate her age. She and Bellatrix looked so much alike, and yet, there was a dark harshness to Andromeda Hermione no longer saw in her loving mother… though she would have said the opposite, if someone had shown her two pictures of them side by side before her kidnapping a year ago.

She turned to Bella.

"It's your birthday? I didn't know."

"We'll talk about it later," said Bellatrix, agitated. "We're here to question her, to extract information by any means necessary."

"Oh." Hermione glanced around the modest, comfortable sitting room. There were dozens of pictures on the walls, most of a young Nymphadora Tonks, all set around large paintings that didn't seem to be magical like those at Hogwarts, though none featured human or animal subjects.

"Melting Clocks," said Andromeda, pointing toward the one that had caught Hermione's eye. "The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali. If you watch it long enough, the hands on each will move. The only art I've ever commissioned. Cost a bloody fortune."

"I'm not here to discuss your pretentious art collection," snapped Bellatrix. "I said I want an explanation!"

"Pretentious? That's rich, coming from an erudite such as yourself, but fair enough." Andromeda glanced toward the man on the floor and signed dramatically. "He'll be out until we decide otherwise, but how shall I explain this when he's been Rennervated?"

"Who is he?" asked Bellatrix. She and Hermione stepped closer to the back of the couch and glanced over for a better look.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt!" Hermione's eyes widened. "I know him! He's in the Or… er… uh..."

"Yes, Kingsley Shacklebolt," confirmed Andromeda. "He's an Auror; he works with my daughter. That's why he's here. She didn't show up to work today, or yesterday. I had to inform him of the reason. Apparently she couldn't have been bothered to send word by Patronus. I don't know where that girl's head is these days." Andromeda scratched her thigh, drawing Hermione's attention downward. As she was not wearing stockings, Hermione now noticed the port wine stain birthmark down Andromeda's leg, just like her own. She glanced at her mother. She hadn't been told her aunt bore the same mark. Was it hereditary?

"You said his name is what?" asked Bellatrix. "Shacklebolt? Any relation to Lillia Malfoy Shacklebolt's husband? Of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Shacklebolts? Those Shacklebolts?"

"I don't bloody know, Bella. I didn't ask for his complete family history before I crawled into his lap. I concentrated on the pertinent questions." She ticked them off."Do you have a wife, do you have any diseases of a sexual nature, and are you able to keep a secret."

"He… you…?" Hermione seemed to be having trouble wrapping her brain around this. Not only the cheating, not only the fact that it was Kingsley Shacklebolt from the Order, but the fact that this was her mysterious aunt Andromeda, Tonks' mother, Sirius' favorite cousin. She was… not at all how the girl had envisioned her.

"He looks pathetic." Bellatrix sneered down at him, her wand at the ready, as if he might spring up at any moment. "What sort of Aurors have they been training since the first war? Mad-Eye Moody wouldn't have let himself be Stupified so easily."

"Mad-Eye Moody wouldn't have been getting pussy on my couch, either. That puts men in a certain _way_. Their brains don't work as well when all of their blood and energy is concentrated… elsewhere."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. _Was that true?_ She was trying not to stare, but she'd never seen a man's privates before, save for in that grainy old movie her parents had on VHS, the one she'd watched through fingers splayed over her squinted eyes. Did they all look like this? Did her _professor_ look like this? She suddenly felt an uncomfortable, inappropriate tug in her lower abdomen, and a small flood of warmth between her legs, and felt her face go hotter than it had felt in the sun.

"Could you… cover… I mean… he's…" Hermione jerked her head toward his lower body. "You know."

Bellatrix curled her upper lip. "Cover his cock, is what she's saying. The girl doesn't need to see that, Mrs. Tonks. Have a bit of class, for fuck's sake, you unrefined troglodyte."

Andromeda released a second dramatic sigh. "Fine, fine. Calm yourself, you psychotic pigeon."

She knelt beside his body, tucked him back into his pants, and closed his wizard's robe. She then slipped a throw pillow under his head, stood, and stretched.

Bellatrix still had her wand trained on his head.

"Please, Bella, don't kill him," Andromeda requested in a somewhat bored tone. "I mean, really. How could I explain a dead Auror to my husband? I'm supposed to be at work right now!"

"This is beyond me!" Bellatrix sneered, both disgusted and confused, and threw up her hands. "You abandoned our family for that Mudblood Tonks, and you don't even _love_ him?"

"What makes you think I don't _love_ him?" Andromeda was now buttoning up the front of her fifties-style dress, which was tight in the torso but flared out below the waist.

" _I_ don't fuck around on the man _I_ love, but I reckon that's just _me."_

"Yes," said Andromeda. She adjusted the thin belt around her waist. "That's just you."

"How long have you been married?" Bellatrix pressed. "Twenty-five years?"

"Twenty-five years this year, yes." Andromeda crossed her arms over her chest, staring at Bella as if daring her to say anything negative about this. "It's a long time to be content with only one person, you know."

Bellatrix puffed out her chest indignantly. "I've been content with only one person for nearly that long!"

"Not your husband, though." Andromeda chortled. "And does it count, considering thirteen of those twenty-some-odd years were spent locked away in a cell? Perhaps if you'd spent the last two decades waking up beside You-Know-Who instead of waking up from dreams about him, you'd be sick of his noseless, hairless, ugly grey face already."

"Take that back!" Bellatrix jabbed her wand forward threateningly. "He may be noseless and hairless, but he is _not_ ugly!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say." With a passing glance at Kingsley, Andromeda began moving toward the doorway. "Let's away into the kitchen, shall we? No need to disturb him. I assume you've brought your secret not-dead daughter here for a reason."

"Yes." Bellatrix did not relax her wand arm, even though her sister's back was to her. "How did you know Hermione was alive?"

"Jumping straight into it, eh? No finesse at all." Andromeda led them down a narrow hallway to a brightly lit kitchen. "Hermione, biscuit?"

 _"_ _How did you know?"_

"Let me ask a question first, Bella. Why do you insist upon showing up uninvited, at inopportune times? Would it kill you to send an owl first? Or Floo call me to see whether I'm free? Letting yourself in without even knocking? It's very rude."

"You're much feistier in the daylight than you were in the dark, the last time I paid you a visit. I'm not above slapping your face again."

Andromeda opened the biscuit tin, found her wand (it was on the counter), and Accioed three small plates from the cupboard. She then put the kettle on and set to putting out milk and sugar.

"I was worried about my daughter the last time." Andromeda held out the biscuit tin to Hermione, who cautiously selected a chocolate one. "Currently, I know she's fine. Why are you here?"

"How did you know she was alive?"

"Sit."

"I'm not sitting so you can summon someone to come arrest me. Give me your wand."

Andromeda passed it to her.

"Fine, but then you'll have to finish preparing the tea. Hermione, you sit. I can't sit if both my guests are standing, Mother taught me that much."

Hermione sat, so Andromeda did as well.

"Look at me, dear." Andromeda examined Hermione's face carefully across the table. "Pretty. Good bone structure. Attractive eyebrow arch. Nice little nose. Decent complexion, albeit a bit pale. Let's see your teeth?"

Obediently, Hermione showed them. She felt like she was at the dentist, which caused a pain in the center of her chest, but she pushed it away.

"Healthy. Close your mouth." She glanced at her sister. "I like her hair. If it were darker, it would be yours. Ours. My daughter did not inherit our hair. Nymphadora has the limpest, thinnest, mousiest hair I've ever seen. It's her worst feature. Thankfully, given her gifts, she can change it at will."

"How is she?" asked Hermione, suddenly excited to have information about someone from Before.

"Stupid," answered Andromeda. "Two days ago, she married the werewolf."

"Remus?" asked Hermione. "That's lovely!"

"It's revolting," said Bellatrix.

"Yes, I know," agreed Andromeda. "They eloped. I wasn't invited. Not that I'd have gone. Obviously, I don't approve."

There was a several second silence, then Bellatrix cracked up at this.

"You bloody hypocrite! Just like Mother."

"I am not a hypocrite," Andromeda argued sourly. "I'm nothing like Mother."

"You're exactly like Mother!" Bellatrix leaned against the counter, a taunting smile playing at her lips. "Sacred Salazar, what sort of life has my dear little sister been leading? Auror Stupified on her sitting room floor with his cock hanging out like a strangled snake, furious her mixed-blood daughter married a werewolf – tell me again why you won't turn away from the Mudblood and return to your family?"

"I love my husband."

"You love being unfaithful to him?"

"No." She reached for a biscuit. "But I love sex. I'm insatiable. I love men. That's something my husband and I have in common."

Hermione was confused. "You both love sex?"

Bellatrix, however, had figured it out. "Your husband loves men?"

Andromeda smiled. Bellatrix was incredulous.

"You abandoned your entire family for a gay homosexual Mudblood who loves men?"

"No." Andromeda pushed the tin toward Hermione, who took another biscuit even though she was still absentmindedly munching the first. "Firstly, 'gay homosexual' is redundant. Secondly, it's inaccurate. And third, I'd appreciate it if you'd not use the word 'Mudblood' in my home, as you are my guests – however unwelcome." She smiled at Hermione. "No offense, dear."

"How is it inaccurate?" asked Bellatrix.

"It is inaccurate because he is not a 'gay homosexual.' He is attracted to men _and_ women. He's like Mother in that way."

"Waayy, whaah?" asked Hermione, spraying cooking crumbs across the table. Both her mother and aunt shot her a sharp look, and she hurriedly cleaned the bits up with a napkin from the center of the table. "Sorry."

"You haven't told her about Mother? Oh, allow me!" Andromeda was positively beaming now.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, looked incredibly uneasy.

"She does not need to know the entire family hist-"

"Yes, yes, yes, she _does_. Of course, she does! Hermione, dear. Sweet, innocent girl, let me tell you about your maternal grandmother. Growing up, my mother, Druella Rosier, had a favorite friend, a very close friend, her special friend, a woman named Abra Shafiq, née Abood. When Bella was ten and I was eight, we wandered into Mother's room seeking clothes in which to play dress up, only to find Mother and Mrs. Shafiq in a most _compromising_ position. She ordered us out and demanded we keep silent. That night, after Cissy was put to bed, Mother explained to us that it was our job as good little pureblood girls to someday marry good little pureblood boys and make good little pureblood babies, to keep the pureblood lines from dying out. But then she said… Would you like to tell her, Bella, or shall I?"

Bellatrix looked a twinge green. She waved a hand as if to say, 'go on.' Andromeda cocked her head, smirked, and continued.

"Mother said, 'However, girls, it's important for you to know that when we fall in love, we fall in love with _people_ , not _parts_. You may not love your future husband, but you'll be good to him and give him children, as that is your duty. You may learn to love him, and I hope you do – but love is a funny thing, one that doesn't necessarily play by the rules of society, one that may catch you by surprise, and that's why, sometimes, when we fall in love, we must keep our love a secret.' And then she asked us if we could keep her love for Mrs. Shafiq a secret. Naturally, because we loved our mother, we said we could."

Bellatrix scowled. She twisted her sister's wand between the fingers of her non-dominant hand and avoided Hermione's eye. "Mother was confused."

"Mother was a hypocrite. When I told her I'd fallen in love with Ted, she said, 'A Mudblood? How could you?' I said, 'But Mother, you said we fall in love with _people_ , not _parts_. And he's the person I love!' She told me she meant that we fall in love with ' _pureblood_ people, not parts,' and that I could either forget him or forget about being part of our family." Defiantly, Andromeda tossed her hair and added, "I'm not sorry about the choice I made. I ran off and married the person I loved! And I still love him, though admittedly our marriage is a bit… unconventional."

"But your mother wasn't a hypocrite," said Hermione, setting her half-eaten second biscuit back down on her plate. "She said you were to marry a pureblood boy and have pureblood babies, and keep your real love a secret. You didn't. You wanted to marry the man you really loved. But now… Now, if you don't want Tonks married to Remus because he's a werewolf, because of his _parts_ , aren't _you_ the hypocrite?"

Bellatrix smirked. "She has you there, Andromeda."

"No!" Andromeda appeared highly affronted by this. "No, because Mother said ' _people_ , not parts.' A werewolf isn't 'people.' A werewolf is a werewolf. A magical creature." She narrowed her eyes at her niece. "Not the same."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but her words were cut off by Bellatrix's cackling laughter. Andromeda bristled.

"What, pray tell, is so funny?"

Bellatrix was doubled over, wiping an errant tear from her cheek. "Only that, of the three of us sisters, I think _you're_ the most like Mother!"

"You're a real cunt, you know that?" Andromeda stood and stalked over to the breadbox. She opened it, then opened a secret compartment inside it, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She held the pack out to Bellatrix. "I have to hide these from my daughter because they're unhealthy."

"No, thank you. I quit."

"Did you? When?"

"When they told me they didn't allow smoking in Azkaban."

"Oh." She held the pack toward Hermione. Bellatrix smacked it down onto the table.

"Keep your poison away from her lungs."

"Suit yourself." Andromeda put the cigarette between her lips and leaned across the table, toward Bella. "You'll have to light it. You have my wand."

Bellatrix did so, using her own wand, and Andromeda sat back, blowing smoke rings. Hermione tried not to cough. She had a million questions for her aunt, and wanted to ask them all before her mother decided they had to leave. Forgoing propriety, she launched straight in, and didn't stop. As soon as one was answered, she skipped to the next.

 _"_ _Does everyone but you and Tonks really think I'm dead?"_

 _"_ _Do you think Tonks and Remus will have children?"_

 _"_ _Did you know that Dumbledore used to be friends with Gellert Grindelwald?"_

 _"_ _What did you score on your O.W.L.s?"_

 _"What is your position on house elves?"_

 _"Do you truly think you're happier living this way than if you'd stayed with your family?"_

 _"Do you think Dumbledore knows I'm alive?"_

 _"_ _Have you ever heard of a Horcr…"_ She glanced at Bellatrix, remembering she was never to mention them. _"Whore…house?"_

 _"_ _Did you ever meet James Potter?"_

 _"_ _Have you met Harry?"_

 _"Why did you choose the Grangers to adopt me?"_

 _"_ _Does your birthmark hurt?"_

 _"_ _Have you tried to have it removed?"_

 _"_ _Do men find it ugly?"_

 _"_ _What was my mother like as a little girl?"_

 _"_ _Have you ever been with Kingsley before?"_

 _"How do you know when you're in love?"_

Thirty-four minutes and at least two cups of tea (each) later, Bellatrix cut off Hermione by repeating her initial question.

"How could you have known Hermione was alive when all reports were to the contrary?"

"Oh, that." Andromeda waved a hand dismissively. "Back into the sitting room and I'll show you." They left their mugs and the biscuit tin, following her (ignoring the sight of Stupefied Kingsley Shacklebolt). Andromeda led them straight to her Dali painting.

"This is interesting, but I currently don't give a single fuck about your art collec-"

"My wand?" Without waiting for permission, she plucked it out of Bella's hand and tapped the canvas. Tiny words appeared on the hands of each melting clock… which, right before their eyes, un-melted, becoming three distinct clocks, each with a circular face and two hands. Hermione squint to read the words.

No, not just words…

Names.

"Nymphadora is here." Andromeda tapped the top center clock, which had been hanging on a branch. "See? Hers points to six. Six means Abroad. She's honeymooning with the werewolf until Sunday, then it's back to work. The hour hand on this clock is for Ted. He's at Work, five o'clock. On the clock in the center, over this white bit here, we have Mother and Father. Mother's is at twelve, which means Dead. Father's is set to two, meaning he's at the Cottage House. On the left, this clock, look closely."

Hermione and Bellatrix leaned close to the canvas.

"Bella and Cissy," read Hermione. Andromeda nodded.

"Cissy, set to four: Shopping. Between wars, I don't know that hers moved from that spot. Bella, set to three: Home, as Home indicates _my_ home, not yours. Though yours has been set to two, Malfoy Manor, along with Cissy's for most of the past eighteen months. And here…"

She tapped the red oval on the lower left, which sprung open like a locket to reveal another clock. "Hydra: Home. Well, that's a nice change, isn't it?"

"What has it said until now?" whispered Hermione, hardly daring to breathe, and only vaguely registering that her name on this clock was the name her mother had wanted to give her, not the one chosen by the Grangers.

"Nine: Mortal Peril." Andromeda clicked her tongue. "Mortal Peril. Which tells me only that you've not been killed, but not your location or status either. In case you're curious… the other times show me Hospital, School, Ministry, Pub, and Azkaban, and when the hands disappear, it means Unknown, which is almost worse than Mortal Peril."

"Where did you get this?" breathed Bellatrix, impressed.

"I told you, I commissioned it. Nearly eighteen years ago, while visiting Molly Weasley, I spotted her clock on the wall and quizzed her about the magic required to make it. Then, I made one better. Well, had it made." She tapped it again, murmuring a spell Hermione didn't hear, and the painting went back to looking as it had when they'd first come in.

"I can see the names on the hands of the clocks without using the spell, but others cannot."

"Salazar's sins, it's bloody brilliant!" Bellatrix reached up to press her fingertips to the canvas, but Andromeda slapped her hand.

"You'll get fingerprints on it! Do you have any idea how difficult something like this is to clean?"

"I have a thousand questions," said Hermione.

"A thousand more than the thousand I've already answered?" asked Andromeda.

"Yes," breathed Hermione. This clock meant that someone had known all this time she was alive. But why hadn't Andromeda told Dumbledore? Or… had she?

"If you're going to ask whether creating this required a drop of your blood, the answer is yes. Let's return to the kitchen." Andromeda handed Bellatrix her wand and, as she had earlier, led the way. Hermione followed closely, with a slightly dazed Bellatrix trailing behind.

"Where did you get my blood?" Hermione asked.

"I had the painting made in 1979. When Bella was brought into Azkaban, I thought it would be the perfect time to get a drop of her blood for it. Then I saw she was with child. I didn't want to harm her while she was pregnant, so I waited until you'd been born. It was easy to get blood from both of you that night. She was passed out in her cell, and you were, well, a baby. Procuring it from Mother, Father, and Cissy was much more challenging, and that's why I don't have Draco or Diana as well."

"You know about Di-"

Bellatrix slammed her hands down on the table. "You stole my blood and you stole my baby!"

"You weren't using that blood, and I _saved_ your baby. We've been through this. She was supposed to have been drowned."

"Drowned?!" Hermione turned to her mother. "Is this true?"

"I was told you died. Andromeda was told you were supposed to have been drowned."

"Yes." Andromeda reached into the tin for another biscuit, this one ginger, which she dipped in her lukewarm tea. "A guard was ordered to drown you, but he gave you to me instead."

"You said he didn't know we were sisters." Bellatrix glared accusatorially at Andromeda. "But how can that be? The resemblance is… You're like a poor man's knockoff of me! Anyone can see it."

Andromeda shrugged.

"You're keeping something from me, Andromeda!"

Andromeda shrugged again. Bellatrix raised her wand.

"You're keeping something from me, and if you don't tell me what it is, I'll go back in there and use the Killing Curse on that Auror. You'll get blamed for it and carted off to Azkaban! I'll do it! I'll kill him!"

"Be my guest." Andromeda stepped out of the doorway, but Bellatrix hadn't even made it three steps down the hall before she called her back. "No! Fine. I'll tell you. But I don't want you to do anything stupid with this knowledge, Bella. Understand me? Nothing stupid."

"Who was it?" demanded Bellatrix, grabbing her sister by the bicep, thrusting her wand in the woman's face. Andromeda didn't flinch. "Who was it, Meda?"

"The order came from above," said Andromeda. "From the highest in command. The person you'd least suspect, and yet..."

"Don't make me guess." Bellatrix dug her nails into her sister's arm. "Nix the dramatics! I need you to say it!"

"Yes," said Hermione insistently, feeling at once scared and sick and… strangely excited. "Who?"

Andromeda averted her eyes from Bella's to Hermione's. "I'm sorry, dear girl. The one who ordered you drowned was Albus Dumbledore."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Some of you guessed this really early on, which is awesome… but I promise, there's more to it than has been revealed!

Regarding technicalities, June 13th really was a Friday in 1997. Not that it matters, but… just thought I'd mention. As for exam dates in 1996, the HP-Lexicon says O.W.L.s started Monday, June 11 and ended (for Harry) on Thursday, June 18, but that doesn't line up with the June 1996 calendar (or any calendar!), so I'm going with June 9 being the first day of exams (a Monday) and the 13 being a Friday. Then the 18 (day of Ministry battle) being the following Wednesday. I did keep the order of exams, though, which technically means Hermione would've missed the History of Magic O.W.L., but… let's not worry about that. :)

The Kingsley/Andromeda pairing came about in my fic Stages of Grief and is more explored in Andromeda Tonks: Long-term, Addict, though _this_ Andromeda and _this_ Kingsley are not _that_ Andromeda and _that_ Kingsley. I just plain like them together for no good reason. (Sorry, Ted.)

Also, the Sacred 28 is not my invention, it's JKR's, but I love using/referencing it in fics about purebloods. Find more about it on the HP-Lexicon, Mugglenet, Pottermore, or the HP Wikia.

To **Lilikaco** – I AM going to update ATLTA, but I've been struggling with it and that's why it's been awhile. I'm sorry! But I'll get it posted soon.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, adding to faves, following, and sending PMs! I love them all!

 **-AL**

 **PS:** Thank you all so much for all the reviews on the last chapter! I wrote down names of everyone signed in and tomorrow will choose three people from a hat (actually, a cleaned-out salsa jar) instead of just one, since there were so many of you, which was overwhelming in a good way! I'll PM you tomorrow inviting you to submit a one-shot prompt/idea/request for me to tackle. As I said in the last chapter, I've never done something like that before, but I've seen it done and it seemed fun, so thanks to everyone who reviewed and I hope you enjoy the one-shots when they get posted!

* * *

 **UPCOMING CHAPTER HINTS -**

 **Chapter Eighteen:** Bellatrix takes Hermione back to Hogwarts, just for one night.

 **Chapter Nineteen:** Another Azkaban escape... and the Lestrange brothers come home.

(More **Sevmione** stuff to come, I promise. In particular, within the next chapter...)


	19. FOR THE GREATER GOOD

**A/N:**

 **I've been editing and updating this fic chapter by chapter. Prologue-Chapter 17 haven't changed much, but from here on there are some scenes added or moved. If you're a new reader, continue on. If you read Chapters 18-25 prior to** **Aug 27, 2019, you may want to re-read them. Thanks for being understanding! I think it's a better story this way and apologize for any inconvenience.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:**

 **FOR THE GREATER GOOD**

 **13 June 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione was too stunned and sickened to speak. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. No. Not even if he had been friends with Grindelwald, not even if he was keeping as many secrets as Snape and had as much interest in eliminating purebloods as the Dark Lord did Muggleborns.

But Bellatrix nodded as if she'd half-expected this, and there was relief in her voice when she spoke.

"Dumbledore. I see. Very well. You're certain?"

"That's what I was told." Andromeda stubbed out her cigarette directly on the kitchen table. There were a number of little round impressions in the wood, indicating she rarely made use of an ashtray. She took her wand off the table, helped herself to a second cigarette, and lit it herself.

"Does he know that Hermione is the Black baby who didn't drown?"

"I don't believe so." Andromeda was just sitting there, puffing away, as if her revelation hadn't stabbed Hermione straight through the heart. "Or, he didn't, not all these years she's been at school… but he may suspect now. Tell me, does Severus know that the girl is still quite living? I believe he knows she's my niece and I've been hounding him for information about her wellbeing and whereabouts all year. He's grown quite short with me as a result and now refuses to respond to my owls, though he hinted to Nymphadora she might still be alive the last time they…" She inhaled sharply, shuddering. "Well, I suppose _that's_ over now that she's married."

"Or not." Bellatrix glanced toward the hall, and Hermione knew she was thinking about Kingsley Shacklebolt on the floor of the sitting room. "Like Mummy, like daughter?"

"I hope not."

Hermione shook her head slowly, as if in a daze. Could she be hearing this correctly?

"I'm sorry, I… Do you mean to say that Professor Snape and Tonks have… they've…?"

"Since she was a student, the letch. I'd have had him fired for it, but her reputation would have suffered too, and she wanted so badly to become an Auror."

"Not surprised. About Snape shagging your daughter, I mean." Bellatrix reached for the cigarette pack without asking her sister's permission to take one. She lit it with her wand, same way Andromeda had, but unlike Andromeda, she coughed a little on the first drag. "I've never liked him. He embodies all the most negative Slytherin qualities. He's a snake, slimy, slithering from the underside of one rock to another, deceitful. I hate leaving him alone with Hermione, but the Dark Lord chose _him_ to tutor her. Cissy, however, _adores_ him. She considers him her closest friend. Would trust him with her life, and Draco's too. It's sad. Pathetic."

"Does she fuck him?" asked Andromeda. Bellatrix laughed.

"No. Cissy? Please. She's head-over-heels for her husband. I'd be surprised if she's ever even _looked at_ another man. Don't you agree, Hermione?"

Hermione, who was seated with her hands folded on the table, nodded obediently, but her mind was reeling, she was unable to speak, and she'd gone slightly green.

Dumbledore wanted her dead at birth, and Professor Snape had been having sex with her cousin since the girl was a student. She truly could not trust anyone.

"Dumbledore. Salazar's sins." Bellatrix took a long drag, and let the smoke out in a ring. "Ah, I didn't know I could still do that. But it's like riding a broom. You never really forget."

"Dumbledore," Andromeda reconfirmed. "That was the reason I left the Order. I didn't tell him that, of course. I said I had to focus on being a mother, keeping my child safe – especially as she's a Metamorph, which comes with its own challenges. I quit my job, told him I had to stay home, but truthfully, I was unwilling to spy for him anymore. Not only was I furious that he'd give such a monstrous directive, it angered me that I was not told of the plan – not until that guard came to me. Of course, I wouldn't have carried out the task had it been assigned to me, and I suspect that's why the old man kept me in the dark, but I learned then not to trust any leader who claims to be working toward a 'greater good,' because their greater good may not align with mine. My concerns, therefore, are for myself and my family, and what's best for us."

"You and Narcissa both."

"Narcissa and I have our priorities in order, then."

"I can't believe you were ever in his little group." Bellatrix spat on the floor to show her disgust, which Andromeda then Vanished.

"My home is not your prison cell, Lestrange. Keep it clean, or you can fuck right off out of here."

"Apologies." Bellatrix chuckled. "How is it you're not afraid of me, little sister? I'm terrifying. Sadistic. Murderous. An escaped convict – I've even been featured on the Muggle news. They've been told I'm 'armed and dangerous' and should not be approached. But you're bold enough to lecture me on decorum?"

"I told you last year, I know full well if you want me dead you'll kill me, and I'll not waste my time or energy or breath trying to convince you otherwise. I refuse to cower from my own sister, or lower myself by begging for mercy, and I'll show you the respect I feel you deserve, but no more. Also, this is _my_ home, and if you spit in my home again, I'll transfigure you into a dog and smack your nose with my newspaper, then put you out in the street, because that's how I treat animals who make a mess on my floor."

Bellatrix positively cackled at this.

"Oh, dear sister, at times, I've missed you. Tell me, will you be informing Dumbledore of our impromptu reunion? Do you intend for him to know Hermione's fate?"

"Not at this time. I'll not tell Nymphadora either, nor Ted. But you may wish to let Severus know no more letters shall be forthcoming from me, and I imagine he'll figure out why."

"Fine." Bellatrix danced the lit cigarette over her knuckles from one finger to the other. "Shall I tell Cissy we saw you?"

"How is my baby sister? Still vapid and narcissistic and too pretty for her own good?"

"She's blonde."

Andromeda snorted. "I know. About ten years ago, I spotted her in Diagon Alley. Almost didn't recognize her, but she had her little nose in the air. She wears privilege like the poor wear potato sacks."

"Potato sacks?" Bellatrix snorted. "How Dickensian."

"Where'd you learn that phrase?" asked Andromeda. "You've never read a Dickens novel in your life. That's literature. All you've ever read are textbooks and paltry smut."

Bellatrix went pink.

"What was Narcissa like as a child?" asked Hermione.

"The same she is now, I expect. Spoilt, selfish, snobbish, and narcissistic. She's never had to fight for anything or want for anything."

"Cissy's had a difficult life," said Bellatrix.

"Difficult?" Andromeda laughed derisively. "Yes, it must be _unimaginably_ difficult, being born rich, marrying rich, living rich. Handsome husband, healthy children…"

"Child."

"Child?" Andromeda's smile faded. "Is one ill?"

"One's dead."

"One's… what?"

Bellatrix stared at her. Hermione, despite still feeling dazed, gaped at her aunt with concern and confusion, too.

"Diana. She died. In 1981."

"She… what?" Andromeda leapt up from her seat. "That's impossible! I… I would have known. I assumed–"

"She died, Andromeda. I was there when it happened."

"No! I didn't see... I didn't..." Andromeda's eyes darted toward the door. "That can't be!"

"She was a toddler," said Bellatrix. "It happened before I went to Azkaban."

"Oh." Andromeda looked as though she might cry. "I didn't know."

"How could you _not_ know?" asked Hermione. "You seem to know everything else."

"I... yes." Andromeda pinched the bridge of her nose. "I've seen Narcissa four times in twenty-five years. First time was in 1975, when she was out of Hogwarts and married but not yet a mother. The second time, she was pregnant with Diana. Then I saw her once in Hogsmeade with both little ones and Lucius – that was during the war. Finally, in Diagon Alley about a decade ago, as I said. She was with Draco, but I had no reason to believe that was because Diana had…" Andromeda stood. "Excuse me. I'll be back momentarily."

Bellatrix and Hermione awaited her return, though the latter couldn't help wondering whether it was safe to let her out of their sight for even a second. However, a moment later, she reentered, a photo album in her hands.

"Look." Still standing, she set it on the table and flipped several pages in. She turned the book toward Bellatrix. Hermione leaned across the table to see too.

On this page was Diana's birth announcement, followed by Draco's, both clipped from the Daily Prophet's evening edition's now-nonexistent society pages.

 _GIRL, to Lucius and Narcissa (Black) Malfoy, on 15 August, 1979._

 _BOY, to Lucius and Narcissa (Black) Malfoy, on 5 June, 1980._

Next to each child's announcement, Andromeda had inked in their names. _Diana Druella Malfoy. Draco Lucius Malfoy._

"I saw no death notice."

"No, you wouldn't have. She was under two." Bellatrix motioned for her sister to sit. Andromeda did so.

"Under two?" Hermione didn't understand. "Why would that matter?"

Andromeda sneered. "Archaic pureblood custom. Babies aren't even officially named until they're a year, and not added to any official documentation, including 'the book' at Hogwarts, until age two - though there are rumors that some are added at birth. But the thought was that babies frequently did not survive through to their second year, thus you'd never want to run the risk of one younger becoming heir to anything, or having any sort of power, and some families might lose multiple children before that milestone. It was customary to call a baby 'the baby' until an official naming ceremony at age one, and while most pureblood families over the last century have chosen to add their new addition to the family tree at that point, the Blacks were holdovers for the old ways, and waited until two. That's why you won't find Corvus or Nyx on the tapestry at Grimmauld Place."

"Who are Corvus and-"

"Corvus was our cousin, Sirius and Regulus' brother. He died two months after his naming ceremony – Dragon Pox killed a lot of children back then – and Nyx was our sister, born less than two years after Narcissa. She came early and lived for about six days. Mother named her straight away, despite tradition. We don't typically speak of them. If they die before age two, it's as if they never existed. That's pureblood tradition for you, eh, Bella?"

Bellatrix shrugged as if she didn't care, but the truth was, it had eaten away at her knowing her daughter, Hydra, was not on the Black family tapestry, and that there would be no record of her. It had eaten away at her for nearly seventeen years.

"So many dead children, unremembered." Hermione's nose twitched, her eyes burned.

"It's not only purebloods who lose babies, love." Bellatrix reached across the table to squeeze her daughter's hand. "Since the beginning of time, all across the world, women have been dying in childbirth and children have been at risk of dying before they reach adulthood."

"Mother used to say that was our lot in life, a woman's cross to bear. Fuck." Andromeda stubbed out her cigarette and closed the album. "I had one child and two miscarriages and one stillbirth and gave up. I have since taken great pains to ensure I never conceive again. I'd die if ever anything happened to my daughter." She glared at her sister. "But first, I'd kill whomever harmed her."

"Settle down, love, we're getting on so well, let's not ruin it."

Andromeda reached for a biscuit from the tin in front of Hermione. The girl was no longer eating them. Despite missing breakfast, she had no appetite.

"So, what was it that got baby Diana then? The Pox? Spattergroit? Mumblemumps?"

"Narcissa killed her."

Andromeda dropped her biscuit. It broke into three pieces upon hitting the table. The woman's mouth hung open, her eyes widened, her skin paled. She stared upon her older sister with sickened disbelief.

"For fuck's sake, _why_?"

"Yes," said Hermione insistently. "Why?"

"Not on purpose. She was negligent. If not for Draco, she would have killed herself shortly thereafter, but Lucius… He's not one of my favorite people, but I cannot deny he's been a good husband for her. She wouldn't have survived without him. Him, and the private facility she was committed to for six weeks after it happened."

Andromeda swore under her breath, Vanished the biscuit, and shook her head.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I still… care… about her."

"Do you?" Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow. "And yet you walked out on us twenty-five years ago and never looked back. Not to be overly critical, Andromeda, but that was not exactly the best way to show you care."

Andromeda scoffed at this. "I know you're both angry with me for abandoning the family, but you abandoned me, too. You could have fought back against Mother and Father when they decided to disown me, you could have tried to convince them to accept Ted, to accept that the world was changing and-"

"You never loved us, Andromeda. If you had, you'd never have been able to leave. Not for him. Not for anyone."

"No? I never loved you? _I_ never loved _you_?" Andromeda's fist clenched around her wand, which emitted little sparks, seemingly accidentally. Her eyes narrowed and flashed, and she looked, in that moment, almost as scary as her sister had in her Wanted poster. "When you came into Azkaban, pregnant and ill, not only did I ensure you ate well, I would slip into your cell at night while you wailed like all the other prisoners, heavily impacted by Dementors, unable to discern fact from reality, and hold you. There were nights you were delirious, calling out for your wicked lover who'd abandoned you! While you were begging for Mother, I'd sit with you on your floor and stroke your hair. I let you call me Mummy!"

She stood, her eyes boring down on her older sister, her jaw set.

"I risked my job, I risked losing Dumbledore's trust, I risked being divorced by my husband should he find out – hell, I risked ending up a prisoner myself, should the night guard have discovered me there! – but I did it anyway because you were pathetic and frightened and pregnant and alone. You needed me and I was there for you, but where were _you_ from 1973 through 1981 when I was in need? And where has Cissy been all this time? She's _never_ written me, not once in all these years! I learned about my own mother's death from the _Daily-fucking-Prophet,_ Bellatrix Druella!"

Andromeda's voice continued to rise as her face purpled with decades of pent-up fury.

"I was there for you in Azkaban and I've been there for your daughter all these years! I've been keeping a close watch on her, I carefully selected her adoptive parents, I took great personal risk by ensuring her very _survival_ , keeping her true parentage a secret even though there's absolutely _nothing_ in it for me… I befriended her parents so I could have a reason to visit her, checking up on her often until You Know Who was gone and I could be confident she was safe! I've done all this, even though, if given the chance, you'd sooner _bury_ my daughter than protect her! And yet, you dare accuse _me_ of not caring? Of _never loving my family?_ You can fuck right off with that self-serving nonsense, you sadistic, closed-minded bitch. I ought to have Rennervated Kingsley when I went in to get the album. I could have sent your ungrateful arse straight back to Azkaban! _How dare you tell me I don't bloody care!"_

"I learned about Mother's death from the Prophet, too," said Bellatrix, uncharacteristically quietly, her voice quivering. She stubbed out what was left of the cigarette on the table as Andromeda had done previously. "A guard slipped the society page through the bars and said, 'Say goodbye to Mummy, Lestrange.' I hadn't even known she was sick. I cried for weeks."

"We've all got our sob stories." Andromeda flopped back in her seat, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but with the furious color draining from her face.

"I don't understand why you saved me," said Hermione, looking from her mother to her aunt. "I don't understand why Professor Dumbledore wanted me dead, and I don't understand why you didn't."

"Professor Dumbledore was thinking about the greater good. To him, you were a problem, not a person." Andromeda pressed her palms against her eyelids and sighed. "But to me? You were the innocent baby daughter of my once-beloved older sister. I couldn't let you die. Neither of you deserved to suffer that."

"But why? Why was my death 'for the greater good'? I was a newborn! What harm could I possibly… what threat… what could anyone gain from killing me?"

"What threat?" Andromeda chuckled. "Oh, my dear girl, I'd heard you were of exceptional intelligence, but you cannot figure out why Dumbledore would have wanted you dead?"

Hermione shook her head. Even though she thought she did, in fact, know, she needed to hear it. She needed for her aunt to say it.

"For the greater good, dear girl! Dumbledore wanted you dead because you're the daughter of the Dark Lord."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1980**

 **(17 years ago)**

"I don't understand, my Lord."

Bellatrix and the Dark Lord were in bed together, naked, having just finished what could only be described as a marathon sex session, during which he'd brought her to ecstasy no less than four times, and she'd left him sated but utterly exhausted and somewhat sore. She rested her head on his shoulder, her nails gently raking the thin hair on the center of his chest, with one of her legs thrown over his. He had one arm around her, settled on her lower back, and the other hand propped up between the back of his head and the pillow.

They were discussing the topic of the evening's meeting of masked, marked Death Eaters, during which orders had been given to track down James and Lily Potter as well as Frank and Alice Longbottom, but not to harm them.

"According to Severus, the Prophecy…"

"But how can he be trusted?"

"Do not interrupt me, Bella." His grip tightened around her waist, but in an intimidating way, not an affection one. Her breath hitched in her throat and she apologized. He continued. "According to Severus, the Prophecy was clear that a child born to parents who thrice defied me, born as the seventh month dies, will have the power to vanquish me."

"But the Prophecy was given by that mad old fraud, Trelawney, my Lord. She cannot be trusted. Just before the start of third year, during a school shopping visit to Diagon Alley, I slipped away to visit her little shop on Knockturn. She was reading fortunes and telling the future for a galleon a session. She told me she saw a dismal future for me, she saw me locked away, devolving into madness, because some stupid tea leaves took the shape of a crow under a cloud or some rubbish. She also said she saw my younger sister saving the family, but wouldn't say which sister or how, and she said she saw 'intense inner turmoil.' She makes it up as she goes."

"I'll not take the chance."

"What's your plan, then? You can't kill a baby!"

"Can't I?"

She shivered. He, mistaking the cause of it, wandlessly Accioed the blanket up to cover them.

"But I do not yet know which baby is the one–"

"Kill both their worthless parents instead, then bring the babies here and let Narcissa raise them. They'll both be purebloods, won't they? Cissy can raise them to be an asset to you rather than a danger, and if, down the line, one looks to be-"

"You've interrupted me again. I'll not permit it a third time."

"I'm sorry, my Lord." She kissed his chest and snuggled closer, closing her eyes. "It's just that… a baby…"

"The Longbottom baby will be pureblood, but the other child, Potter, is the child of a pureblood and a Muggleborn. A Mudblood."

"Revolting."

"Agreed." He stroked her hair. "I am leaning toward the Potters, honestly."

"Surely the baby of a Mudblood is no match for you, my Lord. I'd target the Longbottoms first. But Cissy-"

"Your sister has her hands full enough these days. How is she faring with the newborn?"

"Mother has been staying at Malfoy Manor to assist her." Bellatrix scratched up and down his chest, following the line of hair that ended at his pubic bone. "I would be good with a newborn, my Lord. I've held him and rocked him. I helped bathe him. Just as I've done with Diana."

"You want to raise either the Longbottom or Potter babies?"

"Or… my own?" She glanced up at him, a hopeful expression in her heavy-lidded dark eyes. "Our own. We could have another. We could-"

"Not now, Bella." He pressed his icy lips to her sweaty forehead. "I need you to be my soldier, my supporter, my most devout and capable follower. You would not abandon me when I need you most, would you?"

"No, my Lord." But she sounded disappointed.

"There isn't time to be spent on making you a mother at the present, Bella. We must instead focus on winning this war, on eliminating any potential obstacles in our way. Which includes the unborn children of both Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom. When we've accomplished our goals, I'll be glad to give you another baby."

Her heart leapt.

"But when?"

"I, unlike Trelawney, am not a Seer." He chuckled, knowing this would irk her. "Hush, now. We need our rest. It's well after midnight."

"Yes, my Lord," she said obediently, but she remained awake, her cheek to his chest, her stomach twisting painfully, long after he succumbed to sleep.

How could her lover want to kill a baby?

 _He has no choice,_ she eventually decided. _It isn't that he wants to kill a baby, but that he has to. It is necessary to win the war._

Killing the baby born as the seventh month died, the one whose parents thrice defied him, the one who'd have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord?

It was for the greater good.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **13 June, 1997**

 **(present)**

Andromeda sipped what was left of her (lukewarm) tea, stood, and wiped her tired eyes.

"This is draining, Bella. It's too much. I know I can't force you to do anything you don't want to do, but please. Please. I need you to go, now. Both of you."

"We'll go." Bellatrix stood, so Hermione did too. "But one last thing, before we depart…" Bellatrix looked her sister up and down, discerningly. "We need clothes."

Andromeda groaned. "You cannot be serious. Do I look like a thrift shop?"

"You look like a Muggle housewife in 1954. But it suits you. I haven't much to wear. Neither has Hermione. For her, two old Hogwarts uniforms from Cissy, the jeans and shirt she was wearing the night I found her at the Ministry, two pairs of pajamas, one nightgown, one formal gown. I have little more. Just a few ensembles I wore when going out amongst Muggles in the '70s, what little Cissy collected and kept in a trunk after my arrest… Last time I had to walk among them, they whispered about me!"

"You're not shopping in my wardrobe, Bella."

"One dress for me, an outfit for her. That's all. I want to take my daughter to lunch but we're far too conspicuous like this. Please?" Bella put on a pout. "I love you, Andromeda. And it's my birthday."

Andromeda stared silently at Bellatrix for several seconds, then bust out laughing.

"I do not know what to make of you! You are utterly ridiculous. Fine. One dress for you, one outfit for her, then get you'll get the fuck out of my house with the promise not to return again without adequate forewarning and subsequent permission. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

They shook on it.

Once upstairs in the bedroom, Andromeda led the way to her dress collection – she had eleven exactly like the one she was wearing but in all different color combinations. Hermione sat on the bed and simply watched them. She felt as though she had fallen back into the Penseive and was watching a memory rather than living this moment in the present.

"Red with black dots might work on you." Andromeda held it up in front of Bellatrix, who pushed it away.

"I'll look like a ladybug!"

"Black with green, then?"

"Now I'm a beetle!"

"Orange and yellow stripes?"

"With my complexion?!"

"Awfully particular for a woman who spent over a dozen years wearing filthy prison garb." Andromeda reached into the back for one of her favorites, one she knew Bella would like too. It was solid dark purple (no dots) and form-fitting but flared out a little below the waist, tied with a thin white belt. It even had pockets.

"It's perfect!" Bellatrix reached for it.

"It's mine." Andromeda held it away from her. "And it isn't free."

"You want gold?"

"I want your word." Andromeda took Bella by the wrist and guided her in front of the mirror. She held the dress up in front of her. "Your vow. That's all."

"My word? My vow? I said I'd not return without permission, isn't that enough?"

"I know you'd like to see my daughter dead. I know you told You-Know-Who you'd be happy to prune the family tree. I know you have no affinity for her at all – and while I could kneel here and cry and beg you to spare her, while I could remind you how much it hurt to be told your daughter had died, and while I could know you know how losing her daughter destroyed Narcissa, I know you, and I know you'll push that out of your head and your heart and do whatever he demands of you."

"Androm-"

"But I also know you'll not go back on your word… and I know, if you want this dress, and an age-appropriate ensemble for your daughter courtesy of my Nymphadora, you'll make the Unbreakable Vow."

Bellatrix's brow knitted. "The Unbreakable Vow?"

"I'll give you the clothes, and not tell anyone you were here, and even keep secret that I know Hermione is alive and well, and, in exchange, you'll agree not to murder my daughter."

"But if the Dark Lord-"

"She'll do it!" Hermione took the dress from her aunt and tossed it on the bed. "She won't murder Tonks. She'll make the Unbreakable Vow."

"Hermio-"

"You'll do it. Or…" She grabbed for the two wands loosely held down by Bella's side. She held her mother's behind her, and pointed her aunt's at the two women. "Or I'll Stupify you both and escape, leaving you wandless, and I'll go directly to… to... er..."

"To… Dumbledore?" Bellatrix looked furious about having been disarmed, but there was also the teensiest glint of pride in her eye. The fiery girl reminded her of herself at that age. Stubborn. Bossy. Fearless.

"Directly to the press! I have a connection at the Prophet. Rita Skeeter. If you won't do this – won't agree not to kill Tonks, won't make the Unbreakable Vow – I'll stun you both in one movement and I'll talk. I'll talk about Kingsley on the floor and Andromeda's clocks and about how we're related and where you've been hiding, and the Dark Lord will know you disobeyed him by sneaking us out!"

"Very well." Bellatrix smiled, though her eyes flickered frighteningly. "I'll talk you through how to perform the Unbreakable Vow, so you can serve as Bonder."

"I know how," said Hermione haughtily, tossing her hair and looking very much like her mother at seventeen. "It was described in depth in Magick Moste Evile."

"I'm ready, then." Andromeda knelt and put out her arm to join with her sister's. Bellatrix did the same.

Not half an hour later, mother and daughter were seated in a small Muggle pub, awaiting fish and chips and mushy peas, and Andromeda had gone back to fucking Kingsley Shacklebolt… who believed her when she said he'd fallen asleep on her couch after Round One.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **16 June, 1997**

 **(present)**

Three days after Bella's birthday, Narcissa got pissed for the first time in nearly a month. She stumbled down to the cellar to visit her niece, her third bottle of wine in hand. They hadn't seen each other since the day Hermione and Bellatrix returned from Andromeda's. Narcissa had eaten dinner alone with Hermione that evening, while Bellatrix was otherwise occupied by the Dark Lord, who'd returned early to surprise her for her birthday.

Thankfully, he'd apparated to Malfoy Manor some fifteen minutes after his mistress and daughter's return, and had no idea they'd been out.

"Herminnanny." Narcissa banged her wand on the bar of the cell. Hermione, who had been deep into her book (Not Quite Unforgivable: A History of the Wizarding World's Darkest Legal Curses) jumped up to greet her.

"Auntie! Are you… Would you like to come in?"

"Yes." It took three tries, but Narcissa managed to let herself into the cell and close the door behind her. She collapsed onto her side on Hermione's bed, swishing wine onto the blanket and startling Crookshanks, who hopped down with a hiss.

"You ssaww Dronmeda."

"Yes."

"She looks fat?"

Hermione half-smiled. "No."

"Oh." Narcissa appeared to be disappointed. "Wish she'd got fat. She talk about me?"

"She's bitter because you've never written her."

"She left, not I!" Narcissa took swig from the bottle, but once she lowered it from her lips Hermione gently took it from her and placed it on the bookshelf across the room.

"Auntie, could I ask you… a few things?"

"Ask." Narcissa rolled onto her back. "Room's spinnening. Spinn-in-ing. Spinng…"

"Spinning, yes. Auntie…" Hermione pulled up the desk chair, all business. "Andromeda said Professor Dumbledore wanted me drowned as a baby, on account of who my father is. Do you think that's true?"

"Likely true."

"She also said… she said Professor Snape has been… has been sleeping with her daughter since she was a student. Do you think that's…"

"Sevruss is bad with women. I love him, Hermyniny. I love Sevruss. As a friend. He's my friend. He… he saved me. Two times, he saved me. No… thousands. Thousandsss of times."

"You mean because he stayed with you after the attack, whenever Lucius was away?"

"I asssked him to sleep with me, Hernimy. I was pisssed. I said, 'ssleep with me, Sevruss.' An' I meant sexxxxual-ally. He said 'no, Narcissa! I will not!' He's a good man. A lessser man would not say no. If I… had I… if he'd done it… I would've died. Died! Unfaithful to my Lu-suss? Luciuss? My love? Dead. I love Lucius. Love Sevruss – he's a true friend. He didn't shag me when I wasss sad and stupid and too pissed to see straight."

"That's… nice. I suppose." Hermione smoothed her skirt. She didn't think saying not sleeping with your closest friend's despondent drunk wife was all that impressive in the heroics department – on the contrary, it was basic decency – but she wouldn't say as much.

"Sevrusss… he's bad with women. He doesn't know… what to… say. Do. He's not a bad perssson. I love Lucy. Lucius." Narcissa rolled back onto her side, in the fetal position, her hands clutched under her chin. She hiccuped.

Hermione moved the chair closer, reaching for her aunt's hands. They were freezing and trembling; Hermione held them between hers, rubbing them, trying to warm her.

"Auntie, what happened to Diana?"

"Killed her." Narcissa voice cracked. "My baby. My fault. Luciuss doesn't blame me, he saysss, but iss my fault. My baby. My fault." She started to cry.

"I'm sorry, Auntie. I'm sorry I asked." Hermione blew warm air on her aunt's icicle hands and waited until her tears subsided. Just when it seemed the woman had passed out, Hermione spoke again.

"Andromeda said your mother was in love with a woman."

Narcissa nodded. Her eyes were closed, she was still on her side, and her breathing was even now, but she was not asleep.

"Mrs. Shafiq. Abra. Mummy loved her. She came to Mummy's funeral. Together thirty yearsss, they were."

"What about your father? Did he know?"

"He knew. He lovesss Mummy too. Everyone lovesss Mummy. She was a good mummy… not like me." She started to cry again.

"You're a good mum, Auntie!" Hermione assured her. "Please, please don't cry."

"Don't know who I am," confessed Narcissa. "Don't know who anyone iss… don't know anything, anymore. I want my hussband back. My sson. My baby girl… I want… I want the Dark Lord out of my home… I want… I want the war over… I want my ssson to ssurvive. I want… I want to _die!_ "

"No, no, Auntie, you don't want to die!"

Hermione continued holding her hands with one hand, but moved to stroke her whimpering aunt's hair with the other. Narcissa gripped Hermione's wrist tightly.

"Lay with me?"

"Alright." Hermione climbed into the bed beside her aunt. She felt confused and conflicted and completely lost, as she had for the last three days. The last several months. The last year. And this conversation wasn't helping.

Hermione settled on her back, and tensed when Narcissa curled up beside her, an arm around her, and began to sob into her bushy brown hair.

"I suppose I'm not the only one feeling lost," Hermione whispered.

Eventually, they both fell asleep.


	20. THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER

**CHAPTER NINETEEN:**

 **THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER**

 **18 June, 1997**

 **(present)**

It was the eighteenth of June, 1997, which meant exactly one year had passed since the Battle in the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione sat in her cell, frustrated and bitter, alone. She'd not been permitted out during her usual time today because the Dark Lord had Death Eaters in the Manor. Her mother hadn't been able to join her for lunch for the same reason, and her aunt spent all of their tea time talking about how perfect and wonderful Draco was as a little boy, which didn't exactly interest Hermione at the moment. Draco was at school right now, learning, having fun, spending time with his friends. Free. Draco wasn't locked in a bloody cellar without his wand for the three-hundred-sixty-fifth day in a row. Draco hadn't gotten a terrible sunburn on his face and arms because he'd recently been let out for the first time in nearly a year and his poor body couldn't take it.

Draco wasn't sitting behind bars peeling dead skin from his shoulders.

It was nearly ten at night when Professor Snape came down the stairs, later than he should have been, there for the first time in over a week.

"Kind of you to drop in," said Hermione testily, "But I'm in no mood tonight, thanks."

"Got your monthly?" he asked rudely as he let himself in. "I haven't time to waste arguing with you. If you do not wish to learn tonight, present to me your most recent homework; I'll take it up to the study and correct it there. I have no patience for ornery teenage girls."

"But you've got plenty of patience for teenage girls who'll spread their legs for you, eh, Professor?"

His jaw dropped.

"Who are you?" he asked, holding his wand at the ready. "Revelio."

"It's me," she barked. "The _new_ me. The me who isn't content to sit here in a cell, locked away from the world, denied agency and autonomy and my own bloody wand!"

He lowered his wand.

"You're angry."

"Well spotted, Professor! You _must_ be a Legilimens!"

"I don't believe I like this side of you, Miss Granger."

"Black! My. Name. Is. Hermione. Black!" She stood and swished her hand through the air on each word.

He recognized the motion as one required to conjure birds, and was amused when several black crow's feathers appeared from nothing, floating toward the floor. So she was capable of doing wandless magic in this moment, eh? He might press this… see how far she could go.

"Hermione Granger, daughter of dentists. Tell me, do you miss Mummy and Daddy?"

"My 'mummy' is probably here right now, shagging You-Know-Who, that vile, disgusting creature who controls and abuses her, who-"

"Would you prefer to be back at Hogwarts, under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore?"

"FUCK DUMBLEDORE!" She swiped again, and this time sparks flew from her index finger. "How could _anyone_ want to kill a baby? I was a baby! A newborn baby! It isn't my fault who my parents are! I didn't ask to be the pureblood heir of the darkest wizard to ever live!" She clenched her fists, and when she relaxed them, two balls of bluebell fire burned in her palms. "THAT MAN WANTED ME DEAD!" She threw forward her hands and the two blue flames shot toward Severus, who put them out with a lazy flick of his wand… but he looked impressed.

"You were right, Professor! I can't trust anyone! Not Dumbledore, not the Dark Lord, not my mother, not Harry Potter, certainly not YOU!" This time she reached for a quill on the desk before slashing through the air.

He inhaled sharply then the hex hit his chest. It wasn't powerful enough to do significant damage, it wouldn't even bleed much, but it smarted like slicing into one's palm while cutting lacewing flies; he would need a pain potion later.

"You are angry because you – my student – learned that I'd previously had relations with Nymphadora – a former student – years before I met you, even though she is now married, and even though there is currently nothing unprofessional going on between me and either of you?"

"You kissed me!"

"That, as I informed you at the time, was a mistake."

"I'm not anyone's mistake, Professor! Not my parents', and certainly not yours!"

He barely concealed a smirk. He'd changed his mind. He _liked_ her like this.

"Calm yourself, girl."

"FUCK YOU."

She hadn't felt this way in a long time, but it was the way she'd been during her early months of incarceration, when she'd take out all her anger and frustration on him because he was a safe target, and she thought she might explode otherwise. She brought up the quill again, and this time, without considering the repercussion should the curse work, she levied at him one she'd read about only days earlier, before her aunt Narcissa had interrupted.

"CONFRINGO!"

He was thrown high and back against the cell bars, his breath momentarily stolen from him, then collapsed to the floor. He held his hands over his heart, which was pounding and aching in his chest, half-expecting it to have exited his body through the center of his ribcage. Tears welled in his eyes much to his vexation, and he clenched his teeth together to keep from shouting out from the pain.

Hermione dropped the quill and rushed to his side.

"Oh, sir, Professor, I'm sorry! I had no idea… I didn't know it would work! I don't know what came over me! I didn't mean to…"

"Take… my… wand…" He could hardly speak. "Cut… open… coat… shirt… Must… stop… curse… spreading…"

"Professor, I am so, so sorry! I-"

"Severing charm, coat, shirt. Careful."

She picked up his wand, which had flown from his hand and landed nearby on the floor, and did as directed. When she had his skin exposed, she gasped. There was a black circle dead center, and it was growing.

"Listen… carefully…" As he told her how to stop the spread of the curse, she followed directions to a T, and when the incantations were completed he asked her to reach for the Essence of Dittany in his pocket. She rubbed that gently on the mark, which looked blackened and charred like the bottom of a scorched pan, then helped him up and over to her bed. He leaned against the headboard, tipped back his head, and concentrated on his breathing.

"You… made… pain potion?"

"Yes, I still have it!" She rushed to her bookshelf, where they kept the completed potions from previous assignments. Pain Potion was properly labeled, and she hurried back to his side with the vial, which he downed in its entirety.

She sat beside him, holding his hand, and looking painfully apologetic as he let the pain potion work its magic. Finally, after several minutes, he was able to speak.

"That curse was the one that got Sirius Black arrested." He still had a hand over the wound. "The one Wormtail used to kill twelve Muggles at once. I'm impressed you were able to learn it from a book, without a teacher to guide you, and even more impressed you managed to perform it with a quill for a wand."

"I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Professor."

She leaned over him like a nurse might, trying to fix the pillow behind his back, her eyes unable to stray from the marking. He caught her hands, forcing her to still.

"Stop. I'm the one who's sorry."

"You, sir?" She settled back on the edge of the bed, beside him, and regarded him with bemusement. "Why?"

"It's been a year, as you said. You remain wandless, locked away. You want to see the sun, to breathe fresh air, to use your magic. You don't want to be a prisoner."

"That's… true."

"Those bluebell flames… someone used one of those to set my robes on fire during your first year at Hogwarts, at a Quidditch match. That wouldn't have been you, would it, Miss Black?"

Her cheeks went pink.

"That depends, sir. If I say yes, will you deduct House Points?"

He laughed, but then clutched his side, as laughing caused him pain throughout his entire torso. She winced and reached for the Essence of Dittany.

"Perhaps you need more?"

"Perhaps." He allowed her to apply it, even though he could now easily do so himself. He liked the way her small fingers felt as they massaged the healing cream into his chest. He tipped his head back against the wall and tried not to imagine her pressing butterfly kisses against the scar that would surely be left there.

When she finished, she placed the container back on her desk, and settled her hand on his upper thigh, as if that was the most natural place to put it. He opened one eye to look her over, but she seemed distracted.

"I've spent so much time as of late reading about Dark Magic and dark curses, and I have to be honest, Professor… even though I am sorry to have hurt you, the way I felt when I cast it… powerful… almost…" The red in her cheeks deepened. "Sensual. It was like a… release…" She was positively tomato-faced now. "Is that normal?"

"It is, especially for those unused to performing Dark Magic. It can be inexplicably tantalizing." He did not admit that often in his use, the use of such magic was so arousing he couldn't help but spend a decent chunk of time in the shower afterward with his cock in his hand and the mental image of Lily Evans in his mind. Dark Magic could be dangerous for more than one reason.

"I've never thought to use my quill as a wand before."

"Nor should you. It could be dangerous, even deadly, using a facsimile in place of a wand. It could have backfired on you, or exploded the entire room, killing us both."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I am, though." She cupped his hand between her hands. "I know I'm just your student, but I can't help feeling you're my only friend, and I should not have taken my frustrations out on you like that."

"Confringo is a blasting curse. It should not be attempted indoors." He struggled to sit up straighter… and fought the urge to kiss her palm, which was mere inches from his mouth. "Help me up. We'll go outside to the lake. You can practice there."

"Practice?"

"It's time your education include practical tutorials, Miss Gr- Black. Return my wand. I need to mend my clothing. As soon as I can stand, we're going outside."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 June, 1981**

 **(sixteen years ago)**

"Narcissa?" Lucius entered the bedroom tentatively. His wife was wrapped in the blankets in the fetal position, staring unblinkingly at the wall.

"Cissy?" Druella stepped into the room behind her son-in-law. "Could we bring Draco in? He's crying for you."

"Why? So I can kill him, too?"

"You did not kill Diana!" Lucius' words came out more harshly than intended, and he immediately softened his tone, a pained expression on his face. "Please, Narcissa, you cannot go on like this. The facility released you, they said you were ready to return home!"

"They were wrong." She closed her eyes. "I want to die, please, Lucius. I can't live with all this pain. Please, let me die."

"Narcissa Elladora, I love you, my sweet girl, but this is too much!" Druella hurried to the bed, trying to rouse her daughter. "It's been well over a month!"

"A month!" wailed Narcissa. "A month since I killed my only daughter!"

"Narcissa." Lucius crawled into bed behind Narcissa and tried, with Druella's assistance, to move her into a seated position. He held her by the shoulders, keeping her upright with her back against his chest, and kissed her cheek. "Draco loves you. He needs you. _I_ need you."

"I know what it is to lose a daughter." Druella held Narcissa hands. "I know that pain – I've lost two, counting Andromeda. I can't lose you, too. I need you to be my daughter, and Lucius needs you to be his wife, and, more than anything else, Draco needs you to be his mother."

"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry, Lucius. And I'm sorry for Draco. But I cannot be what any of you need me to be."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **25 June, 1997**

 **(present)**

One week ago, they spent over two hours outside together, passing his wand back and forth, practicing not only Confringo but several other charms and hexes she'd been learning lately, all of which she hadn't gotten to actually try out yet. One after another after another in the moonlight, across the lake, surrounded by trees.

He stood behind her to guide her wand arm when she wasn't quite doing it correctly, and he complimented her when she got the desired results.

By the time they were finished, she was feeling freer than she had in a year, in more ways than one, and perhaps that was why, when he stepped forward to take his wand back before heading inside, she threw her arms around him and kissed him straight on the mouth.

He didn't react at first, but just as she was starting to pull away, his hands went to her waist, holding her firmly, and his lips pressed back against hers.

His parted slightly and hers did the same, and this time, when he kissed her, it was tender and slow and exploratory. He drew her lower lip between his and ran his tongue along it, and continued holding her waist, and liked the way it felt to have her hands clasped behind his neck, under his hair.

An owl hooted overhead, interrupting the moment… ending it.

"I want to teach you," he said, his voice low, as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want to teach you, _not_ take advantage of you. I haven't behaved inappropriately with a student in years, and your cousin was the only one, but I _never_ should have. Not then or now. I am not a good man."

"My aunt Narcissa says you're a good man. She says you're her friend and she loves you."

"I… Narcissa is…" He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them and spoke again, his voice was low and sad. "I am not the good man she believes me to be. I am a man of many faults. And you are too young for me."

"I'm an adult. And I don't feel too young."

"You'll feel differently when you're older." He stepped back, extricating himself from her arms, and smoothed an imaginary wrinkled in his trousers. He held out his arm. "I need to return you to your cell before the Dark Lord discovers you've been out."

She was quiet as they walked back, from the pathway to the Manor door, down the hall, all the way to her cell in the cellar.

"Thank you for tonight, Professor," she said once they were inside. "I won't tell anyone, of course. About any of it."

"Our little secret." Unable to help himself, he leaned down and kissed her once more, on the corner of her lips, almost platonically, but with a linger that lasted a moment too long.

"Goodnight, Professor."

"Goodnight, Miss Black."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **30 June, 1997**

 **(present)**

Hermione was half-asleep on her bed with a book on her chest when her mother came down the stairs two at a time, calling her name.

"Are you decent?"

Hermione glanced down at her attire. She was wearing the jeans and a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt 'borrowed' from Tonks. Her hair was washed but not brushed (why bother?) and her socks were on, but no shoes.

"We're going on a field trip, my love! Hurry!"

Hermione pulled on her trainers and tied them tightly. Bellatrix grabbed a long-sleeved flannel shirt (also Tonks's) which was draped over the back of the desk chair and tossed it to her. Hermione put it on, but did not button it.

"Here." Bellatrix thrust Hermione wand into her hand.

Hermione gasped and grasped the smooth, familiar wood so tightly her knuckles went white. She nearly kissed it.

"Don't make me regret returning that to you. Let's go."

Bellatrix didn't give Hermione time to ask where they were going; they were upstairs in the China Room in seconds. Hermione recognized it from the memory, but was surprised to see it in person, as no one ever went in there… not since it happened, according to her mother.

"Into the fireplace. It's the only one we know isn't being watched. Say 'Borgin and Burke's.' Do not fuck around." Bellatrix flipped a gold galleon in the air and cackled. "Tonight's the night, Hermione, love! The night we've been waiting for! Into the fireplace!" She shoved the girl in first, tossing Floo powder at the same time.

"Borgin and Burke's!" said Hermione, and the flames took her away.

When she stepped out, she was surrounded by Death Eaters. One immediately raised his wand and turned it toward her, but another – Alecto Carrow – stepped between them.

"Lower that, Gibbon!" she snapped, shoving his hand down. "Hurt a single hair on her head, and her mother will have yours."

"My hair?" The bald man looked confused.

Alecto rolled her eyes. "No, your head."

"Who's her moth-"

Bellatrix stepped out of the fireplace.

"Hermione, I see you arrived safely."

"Hermione?" Gibbon raised his wand again. "Granger, the Mudblood?"

"No, Hermione Black, my daughter." This time, it was Bellatrix who shoved his wand down. "Harm a hair on her head, and-"

"I gave him the message," said Alecto. She held up a galleon. Hermione could see, now, that it was not a real one… it was fake, with words printed on it via probably Protean Charm, same as the one Snape had left behind.

"Come on, sister." The large man beside Alecto had a galleon, too. He shoved it in his pocket and pulled out his wand. "Into the cabinet. You're going first, eh?"

"Yes, Alecto is first," said Bellatrix. "Then the girl, then me. I don't care about the rest of you lot, sort it out yourselves."

Alecto giggled. None of the men looked amused.

"Why she going before us?" demanded a man with scraggly hair, sharp teeth, and sallow skin. He indicated Hermione.

"Because, Greyback, I don't trust any of you alone with my daughter, save for Alecto. She goes first, then the girl, then me, followed by the rest of you. Understand?" She shoved up her sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. "Or shall I call for the Dark Lord and let him explain it to you?"

"Go on, then." The man called Greyback gestured toward what looked like a large cabinet. "Be my guest."

As planned, Alecto climbed in first. Bellatrix shut the door behind her, and when she opened it again, the big-boned woman was gone.

"Go on, Hermione. Stay with Alecto on the other side. I'll be along."

Hermione, sensing this was not the time to ask questions or argue (and, frankly, just happy to have her wand back) obeyed. When she stepped out the other side of the cabinet, there stood Alecto, next to a familiar blond…

"Draco!"

"Hermione!" Draco nearly fumbled his wand. He was wearing his Slytherin uniform, complete with Prefect badge, and looking slightly green in the face. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't kn-"

Bellatrix entered then, through the cabinet, followed by Death Eater after Death Eater. Hermione stomach clenched and twisted. They were in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, she realized.

They were back at school.

Another wizard stepped out, and then another.

"You!" Draco stared at Greyback in horror. "What are you doing here?"

"I was invited." The man grinned and picked his teeth with one long pinky nail. "You know I love the children."

Draco blanched, but recovered by sheer will.

"He's a werewolf," Alecto whispered to Hermione, nodding toward Greyback. She looked disgusted.

Draco, meanwhile, quickly explained that Dumbledore had gone and that a few members of the Order of the Phoenix were doing regular patrols of the corridors. There were boos and hisses when he mentioned the headmaster's name and chuckles at the Order. The halls were otherwise clear.

"No match for us," said Bellatrix haughtily. "We took out most of the Order during the first war. Who do they have left? Half a dozen Weasleys, a docile werewolf, my niece, and an Auror or two? I could take their entire brigade on my own with a glass of wine in one hand and priceless china tea set on a silver tray in the other."

"That's… oddly specific," said Alecto Carrow. She giggled again. Either she was nervous, or she was just a giggly person, but either way her light, wheezy chuckles were clearly already annoying those around her.

"What are we doing?" asked Hermione. She looked to her mother with worry, then to Draco, who was looking sicker by the second.

"We're taking over the school," answered the man standing beside Alecto, who had to be her brother, Amycus, as the resemblance was unmistakable. "Hogwarts will be ours."

"Not for keeps," said Alecto, as if reassuring Hermione. "Only until the task has been completed."

"What task?" asked Hermione. No one answered.

"Let's go, then," said Bellatrix, moving to open the door to the corridor. "Draco, lead the way!"

Everything after this happened very fast.

They exited the Come and Go Room under the cloak of Peruvian Darkness Powder thrown in the faces of Dumbledore's Army and hurried toward the Astronomy tower _almost_ without incident, all following behind Draco with his Hand of Glory to light the way.

"Ow!" Gibbon fell forward, hitting his knees on the cold concrete floor. He'd been hit from behind by an unidentified hex… courtesy of Remus Lupin.

"The Order!" shouted Amycus.

And then everyone was fighting. Hermione barely caught a glance of Bill Weasley and saw a flash of pink hair belonging to Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin before Bellatrix yanked her away, dragging her up the stairs on Draco's heels.

Once at the top of the tower, Bellatrix threw her body half out the window, pointed her wand at the sky, and shouted, "Morsmordre!"

The Dark Mark appeared in the sky, and those Death Eaters who'd followed them up scattered, headed back down to the battle. Bellatrix pulled Hermione behind her.

"Now, we wait."

It felt like both forever and mere seconds before Dumbledore flew in through the open window, on an old brown broom. Hermione nearly called out when she saw him, but Bellatrix dug her nails into the girl's wrist, a silent reminder not to speak. They were hidden in the shadows, staring up at Draco and Dumbledore. Bellatrix smiled.

"Draco, you are not a murderer," said Dumbledore in his calm, quiet way.

"You don't know who I am, or what I am!" shouted Draco, his wand at the ready… his hand shaking. "Trust me, I was chosen!"

"I shall make it easy for you," said Dumbledore, just before Draco disarmed him.

There was an explosion downstairs below them. Hermione flinched. Her mother put her finger to her lips and smiled. Bellatrix looked positively mad in this moment, her eyes glinting with dangerous excitement. She looked like the woman from the Wanted poster, not the woman Hermione had spent the last twelve months getting to know… growing close to…

Draco was still talking, explaining something about two Vanishing cabinets and a cursed necklace and a bottle of poisoned mead.

"Don't you understand?" said Draco. "I have to do this! I have to kill you, or he's going to kill me! My family!" Draco sounded as if he might cry. "My mother! He'll kill my mother!"

"We could hide your and your mother. The Order will-"

"He would find us! Find us and kill us! No, it has to be this way! My… my mother…"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, kissed Hermione's temple, and whispered, "Stay here, hidden. Safe." She hurried back up the remaining stairs. Below, others were coming up. They passed Hermione's hiding spot without glancing her way. She recognized one as Greyback, one as Alecto Carrow, and one as her brother, Amycus. If Hermione stood on her tiptoes, she could just barely see them in the space at the top of the stairs, illuminated by the moonlight. Dumbledore had his back to the window, Draco was facing him with his back to the stairs.

"Well done, Draco!" Bellatrix kissed the back of Draco's shoulder.

"Good evening, Bellatrix," said Dumbledore cordially. "It's been a long time. How are you?"

"No time for pointless formalities, old man. Stalling for time?"

"No, my dear girl, these are manners."

"Finish the job, Draco." Bellatrix's voice was suddenly harsh.

It sent a cold chill through Hermione.

She wanted to call out, cry, vomit, scream, fight back… but fight who? Which side was she on? The side of the man who wanted to drown her at birth, or the side of the woman who was devastated by word of her death? The man who treated everyone with such kindness at Hogwarts, or the woman who had been arrested for unspeakable torture? The man who had far too many secrets to be trusted, despite his history of good works… or the woman she had grown to love?

"I'll do it," said Greyback.

"I am surprised, Draco, to see that you've invited Fenrir Greyback into your school, where your friends are, considering."

"I didn't invite him." Draco shuddered. "He just… came."

"Oi, Dumby! I've missed Hogwarts! Fancy letting me come teach?" Alecto giggled and wheezed. Her brother laughed, too.

"Teach all the little children!" said Amycus. "All the pureblood ones!"

"Let me take care of the old man," insisted Greyback, stepping forward menacingly.

"No!" Bellatrix flicked her wand, and Greyback was knocked onto his arse. He was furious when he rose to his feet, but she did not care. "The Dark Lord was clear – the boy has to do it! Go on, Draco! Do it!"

"I _am_ doing it!" Draco snapped, but his hand was shaking harder now, and he was the same color as the moon.

"Wait!" Unable to hold back any longer, Hermione charged up the stairs to the top of the tower. For the first time tonight, Dumbledore looked truly surprised.

"Miss Granger! Then it's true. You _are_ alive."

"I am, but only because the Azkaban guard ordered to drown me as a newborn handed me over to my aunt instead!"

"Azkaban guard?" His blue eyes widened. "Then it's true. You are…"

"Hydra Black should have been my name, but I was stolen from my mother, she was told I'd died!"

"And your aunt…?"

"She brought me to an orphanage, she found the Grangers to adopt me. She saved my life!"

"Andromeda was working in the kitchens, then." He nodded, great sadness overtaking his tired eyes. "I should have known. I should have put it together."

"You wanted me dead! I was a baby!" She lifted her wand, aiming it directly at his heart. "I demand an explanation."

"I wish I had one that would satisfy you, but the simple truth is, I've made a great many mistakes in my life, and-"

"You assumed I'd grow up wicked, on account of who my parents are? On account of who my father is?"

"Who's her father?" asked Greyback. "Who is this girl?"

"She's Bella's daughter," said Alecto.

"She's a Lestrange?"

Alecto giggled. "Not a Lestrange!"

"She's mine," said Bellatrix, tossing back her hair. "Mine and the Dark Lord's."

Draco slapped the hand not holding his wand against his thigh. "I _knew_ it!"

"I had no idea what sort of person you'd grow into, my dear." Dumbledore sighed. "I assumed you'd be brilliant, talented with a wand, academically gifted – and I was correct, clearly – but the sort of _person_ you'd be… I was afraid-"

"You were afraid of a newborn baby?" Hermione's wand hand was shaking like Draco's, but while his was the result of fear, hers was in fury. "You're no better than him, then! No better than the Dark Lord! He wanted Harry dead as a baby for the same reasons, and all these years I've thought you were better, but you're just the same!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore weakly. He closed his eyes. "I know."

Hermione opened her mouth to shout again, to demand an apology, not that one would make her feel any better, but movement behind her distracted the group. Someone had broken through the barrier and was coming up the stairs.

That someone was Severus Snape.

Dumbledore opened his eyes and met Snape's.

"Please, Severus…" he quietly pleaded. "Please."

Severus replied with an overarching movement of his wand, and two plainly spoken words.

"Avada Kedavra."

And then Dumbledore was falling.

And they were all running.

And Hermione had tears streaming freely down her cheeks, but for whom she was crying, she did not know.

There was a battle going on downstairs. Order members and Death Eaters and Dumbledore's Army. Hermione did not have time to seek out her friends, to take note of who was standing and who was unmoving on the floor. Bellatrix gripped her hand as if for dear life and pulled her, hard. They followed Severus and Draco, and the others followed them, and then they were all out on the grounds.

Harry was screaming. He was screaming for Snape to turn around and face him. He was screaming for Hermione to stop. He was screaming out in pain for Dumbledore.

"Harry!" she called, turning back, wanting just one moment to talk to him. Had he been in the astronomy tower too? Had he witnessed what had occurred? Was he as confused and conflicted in this moment as she was?

"COWARD!" shouted Harry.

"Don't call me coward!" replied Snape, sending a nonverbal immobilization jinx back at the boy, who dodged it.

"Sectumsempra!" shouted Harry.

This was Snape's own curse. The professor had taught it to Hermione just last week, overlooking the lake at Malfoy Manor.

"You dare use my own curse against me, Potter? When it is I who invented it? I, the half-blood prince!"

Someone set fire to Hagrid's hut.

Someone was firing stunners at their backs.

They made it to the Forbidden Forest, and hurried toward Hogsmeade under the cover of trees. Why they hadn't gone back to the Vanishing Cabinets, Hermione did not understand.

She was sobbing by the time they reached the tiny town. Draco was still with them, but Snape had fallen behind. The Carrows were gone. Greyback was gone.

"You two." Bellatrix pulled them both to her. She kissed Hermione's forehead first, then Draco's.

Hermione vaguely registered that her cousin was crying, too.

"Close your eyes." Bellatrix, with her arms wrapped around them, apparated. When they opened their eyes again, they were all on the grounds at Malfoy Manor.

"I'm sorry, Auntie." Draco wiped at his tears with the backs of his hands. "I tried. I tried. I swear, I tried."

Hermione was sobbing too hard to speak.

"Into the manor with you both." Bellatrix's tone was firm, but not unkind. She ushered them both down the path and up the walkway and through the door, where Narcissa was anxiously awaiting.

She threw her arms around her son.

"It is done, Mother. Snape did it. I couldn't. I tried. I swear, I tried."

They'd just closed the front door when he was there.

The Dark Lord.

"Dumbledore is dead?" he asked.

"He's dead," confirmed Bellatrix.

And the Dark Lord laughed.


	21. LOVE AND LOW AND HIGH AND HATE

**CHAPTER TWENTY:**

 **LOVE AND LOW AND HIGH AND HATE**

 **30 June, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

How could an act so low give him such an incredible high?

He felt as though he was on something. His heart was pumping too hard and too fast, his muscles were twitching, his senses were all on hyperdrive.

He hadn't killed in a long, long time.

And while he'd never enjoyed it - he wasn't a 'for sport' Muggle hunter by any stretch of the imagination, nor was he even comfortable in the role of soldier ('spy' suited him better. Much quieter) this was always the immediate after-effect.

It seemed to increase not only his adrenaline, but his testosterone. During the first war, he was not the only man who felt insatiable after. He didn't even have to kill. Any Dark Magic would due. It made him feel powerful, masterful, masculine. The first time he used the Cruciatus on an enemy, Lucius had laughed.

"Your eyes!" Lucius had said. "Bloodlust, or just lust?"

Severus employed Occlumency, but it was his face, not his mind, that had given him away.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1981**

 **(sixteen years ago)**

She was cowering on the cold, hard ground in front of them. They were hiding in the Forest of Dean, near one of many temporary shelters for the Dark Lord's Most Wanted followers. Snape, Malfoy, and Nott, the three assigned to the task, were regarding their prisoner with curiosity. She hadn't broken, hadn't given up a damn thing, not even when the Lestrange brothers started throwing Killing Curses at members of her family, the McKinnons. She hadn't said a word.

They'd apparated away with her when Aurors and Order backup arrived. The Dark Lord would not be happy if they returned without the information he sought.

Lucius had tried first, using master manipulation, not magic, to coerce her to talk. Didn't work.

Nott had gone next, smacking her legs with a stick like she was a too-slow donkey. She'd rolled her eyes at him.

Severus had gone third, and tried out the Cruciatus for the first time. He'd PREVIOUSLY performed the Imperius a number of times, and the Avada Kedavra twice, when ordered, but this... this was different.

It made him feel...

Bad.

And good.

"Make her suck you off," suggested Nott, gesturing toward their prisoner. It was July, 1981, and Marlene McKinnon's entire family had been a target of the Dark Lord for a long, long time. They were set upon by Death Eaters and all but Marlene were killed.

Severus, though he'd been a Death Eater for some time already, had never participated in a kidnapping and interrogation. He'd never tortured a woman before. And there was a part of him, a small, dark, disturbed part of him, that wanted to do as Nott suggested...

But if he did so, he'd be no better than Black. And Longbottom. And Potter.

And his father.

No. Never. Unlike them, he was no monster.

"That's not what we're here for," said Severus. He pointed his wand at Marlene. "Are you prepared to talk yet? You're running out of time and trying our patience."

"She can suck me, then," said Nott, grinning, hands going to his belt. "I'll take her."

"She can't talk if her mouth is full of _you,"_ snapped Lucius, who, like Severus, had no interest in (or patience for) sexual assault.

"Full?" Severus curled his lip into a derisive smile. "Be like talking with the stick of a lolly in her cheek, I imagine."

"Fuck you, Snape."

"No, thank you, Nott. You're not my type. And I'm busy leading an interrogation. If you're looking for sex, the brothel's down Knockturn Alley."

"You'd know, wouldn't you? Only place you can get pussy, I'd wager. Or do you prefer cock?"

"I get what I want when I want it, and I don't have to pay for it," said Severus. (In truth, he was a virgin. But Nott didn't need to know.)

"Shut it, both of you." Lucius decided to take the reins. "Last chance, McKinnon. Talk."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Hermione was in the kitchen when the knock came at the door. Narcissa turned to her with panic in her eyes – the girl was not to be allowed out of the cell, indefinitely, by order of the Dark Lord. Not since after Dumbledore's death, when she attempted escape, then attacked her own father.

The Dark Lord had not been seen around Malfoy Manor in the three weeks since, though, nor had Bellatrix, and after a while the Malfoy matriarch felt overly cruel for keeping the girl confined to her cellar prison, crying.

"I've grown to care for you," Narcissa had told her as she unlocked the cell that first time. "Don't make me regret it."

The person at the door knocked again, more insistently this time.

Could it be Aurors, coming yet again to search the Manor, to again question Draco about the night Dumbledore died, to threaten Narcissa with imprisonment if they found she was keeping secrets from them?

Another knock.

"Do not move," Narcissa hissed to her niece across the table. The girl nodded just slightly, her fork-holding hand frozen halfway to her lips; she'd been about to take her first bite of supper. She was starving.

Closest to Hermione at the small, round table (infrequently used, as they generally took meals in the much more formal and therefore appropriate dining room) was cousin Draco. He, too, was frozen, his gray eyes wide and fearful like his mother's bloodshot brown ones.

Narcissa wore no blue contacts today. No makeup. No pins or decorations in her graying hair. No earrings or bracelets. Just a simply, floor-length semi-fitted pale pink dress, house slippers, and her ornate silver and ruby wedding ring.

"If it's Aurors, you have to hide. Without making a sound. Without…"

The pounding at the door came once more. The person on the other side was growing impatient. Narcissa squeaked and flinched, and Hermione couldn't help picturing her nearly twenty years ago, expecting to find Severus Snape arriving with medication for baby Diana, only to find Potter, Black, and Longbottom on her step instead.

"Perhaps Draco should answer it," whispered Hermione. Narcissa shook her head.

"Stay here, children. Silence. Don't move."

She hurried toward the hall. As soon as she was out of earshot, Draco and Hermione sprang up. He pulled his wand.

"Don't try anything funny, Granger."

"I'm hardly a comedienne, Malfoy. Let me by."

"Not a chance!"

He tried to put himself between her and the door, but she shoved him aside.

"I want to hear!"

"I'd rather watch." He grabbed hold of her just above the elbow and yanked, hard. She nearly shouted at him, but thankfully was able to hold her tongue, and a second later they were between the walls. A panel slid shut behind them, enveloping them in almost total darkness. Her pulse quickened.

"What's this?"

"Secret passage. Lumos." His wand lit the stone-walled tunnel in front of them. "Mother doesn't know about it. Don't reckon Father does either. I found it when I was little, playing, and never said a word. I think servants used use them to move about the Manor undetected, back when having Squibs as live-ins was preferable to house-elves. Quiet. Follow me."

He clamped down on her wrist and pulled her along the narrow corridor. It didn't take long before they were about even with the front door. Draco put a finger to his lips, and pressed the tip of his wand against a knot in the wall. Two spots seemingly opened up. Hermione furrowed her brow. Draco's next words were spoken in a whisper so low she almost couldn't hear any sound at all, despite their close proximity.

"To the person in the hall, it looks like the painting of Septimus Malfoy. We're seeing out the eyes."

They each took an eye through which to gaze. Hermione wanted to remark that this seemed like something out of an old movie, but she knew better than to speak, especially as any reference to Muggle cinema would be lost on her pureblood cousin, anyway.

Narcissa had her palm to the door, just above the handle. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. She seemed immobilized.

Another knock.

"It's fine," whispered Narcissa, presumably to herself. "Most likely Aurors. Not the Order. Most likely Aurors. Can't be… they're dead… except… except… but he couldn't… his mind… addled! Aurors, must be. Most likely. It's fine."

Pounding. The person was positively pounding at the door.

"What's wrong with her?" whispered Draco. Hermione wasn't sure whether he was asking her or himself, but either way, she wasn't about to enlighten him. Not now. Not ever.

"Most likely Aurors, Narcissa. Open the door." Her shaking hand went to the handle. "There, that's good. Now the password…" She tapped the handle and performed an incantation no one would dare share with Hermione, followed by the murmured password. This was, at the present, the only way in or out of the Manor, which had been locked down by Bellatrix and the Dark Lord before their departure.

She closed her eyes as she pulled back on the handle, so she didn't see who was standing there.

Not Aurors.

"Narcissa!"

Lucius Malfoy, looking much dirtier and more disheveled than either Hermione or Draco had ever seen him, swept his wife into his arms. He cupped her cheek and kissed her. Her wand clamored to the floor. Her eyes flew open. She stared up at him as if in disbelief.

"Lu… Lucius? Is that really you?"

"Cissa!" His voice cracked with emotion. "My Narcissa, how I've missed you!"

She burst into tears.

"Lucius!"

He looped his arms around her waist as hers wrapped around his neck. Their words overlapped, coming between kisses, punctuated by her soft sobs.

"My lovely lotus blossom, I thought… when you didn't answer the door… and… I was afraid… Narcissa! I've been sick with worry over you, my Narcissa!"

"Lucius! My darling, my love, my… my… I thought… I was worried… afraid… I've been lost without you! I didn't know when we'd.. I… you've been gone so long!"

"He broke us free from Azkaban! Night before last, but without a wand it took me days to reach you!"

"Lucius, Lucius, I… I… it's been just awful!"

"Did he hurt you? The Dark Lord, did he… for me… as punishment?" He held her face gently between his hands, looking her over for signs of trauma. "Did anyone hurt you?"

"No, he… Draco…"

"Draco?" Alarm came over Lucius' face.

"He's fine, Lucius, my love, he's home, he's safe!"

Relief washed over Lucius' face.

"My son is safe. My wife is unharmed. Nothing else matters. I see that, now. Nothing matters to me but you and Draco."

Hiding in the passageway, Draco took in a sharp breath. Hermione, without even thinking about it, squeezed her cousin's hand comfortingly. He squeezed back.

Lucius kissed his wife again, and she stroked his stubbly cheek, and they held each other. She buried her face against his chest, despite the fact that doing so meant she was breathing in the dirt and sweat and grime coating his prison garb, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her to him.

"I worried about you every day, Narcissa. I knew Draco would be at Hogwarts. I was confident he'd be safe there, with Severus. But you. I couldn't sleep without nightmares of you being tortured. I had visions of you being Crucioed, being beaten, being punished… being… being raped."

Hermione bit her lip. Narcissa closed her eyes. Lucius, now running his fingers through her limp, graying hair, continued.

"I started to go mad, thinking the screams I could hear echoing down the prison corridors were yours. I've never loved anyone the way I do you, Narcissa. My Narcissa. If something had happened to you… If anything ever happens to you…"

"Would you still love me, Lucius?" Narcissa asked, so quietly Draco and Hermione had to strain to hear. "Had… had those things happened, would you still love me?"

"Would I still love you?" Again, he took her face gently in his hands. "Nothing you could do, and nothing anyone could do to you, would make me love you less." He kissed her briefly, but pulled back, clearly worried. "Why? Did someone… hurt or… or violate you?"

"No, nothing like that," she quickly assured him, but her hand went to her upper chest, and she began to scratch. "I wish I'd known you were coming home. I haven't… my hair is… and this old dress… no makeup… my eyes…"

"You're as beautiful now as you were the day we married." Their lips met again, then his face broke into a grin. "But you don't have quite the same glow."

"When we married, I had a _pregnancy_ glow."

He laughed. Draco and Hermione exchanged a surprised glance.

"When we returned from our honeymoon I thought my mother was going to explode from the sheer scandal of it, a baby due mere months after the wedding. But my father would have understood – how could I have you by my side all that time before we wed, and never touch you?"

She giggled and used her sleeve to wipe at the errant tears still making their way down her cheeks.

"Had we not lost it, that baby would be twenty-four this November."

"I know." He kissed her temple. "And in August, Diana would have been-"

"You're filthy, Lucius." She cut him off. "Let me take you upstairs. I'll draw you a bath."

"I'll take a shower and you'll join me." He cupped her bum and jerked her toward him. "And we'll see if I remember how babies are made."

Cousins Draco and Hermione had never looked more alike than at this moment, when they both pulled faces of disgust: lips curled, tongues out, eyebrows knitted together. Meanwhile, unaware they were being watched, Narcissa giggled again and extracted herself from her husband's arms, bent down to retrieve her wand, and interlaced the fingers of her free hand with her husband's. She grinned up at him, looking younger and more carefree than Hermione had ever seen her.

"Four times in twenty-five years you've had me pregnant, Lucius. But if you think you can manage a fifth, who am I to object?"

"That is not my mother," muttered Draco. "She hasn't wanted more children, not since my sister. I remember her arguing with grandmother about it!"

"Sounds like she's changed her mind," said Hermione, though it surprised her, too. Both that Narcissa might be willing to have another, and that she'd been pregnant twice more than it seemed even Bellatrix knew about.

"Let's go upstairs, Cissa," said Lucius.

" _You_ go upstairs, my love. You'll shower while I draw you a bath, then I'll join you, but I have an errand to attend to in the kitchen first. And I have to tell Draco you've returned!"

"An errand in the kitchen? Have you taken up cooking again? I thought you'd given that up years ago, with good reason."

"Are you saying I'm a terrible cook?"

"Only a fool would tell his wife she's a terrible cook!" He chuckled. "Compared to Azkaban, your food _might_ even be an improvement."

She swatted at his chest, he drew her back into a hug, and they both laughed.

Hermione, glad she was able to observe, couldn't help smiling. This flirty, happy side of her aunt was one she'd never seen before, and she found it a vast improvement over both her public persona (snobbish and disdainful) and her private one (sobbing and drunk). Hermione dropped Draco's hand and glanced his way. He was smiling too, albeit in a sort of sad, distant way.

"Your son has missed you too, Lucius. He's… he's taken the Dark Mark. He's one of… them."

"One of us."

"Not _us_." She gestured toward her forearm, which was free from the skull and snake branding. "One of _you_ , perhaps. He said he was proud to make the oath. I had to pretend I was as well, but he's so young, Lucius. A child. Our _only_ child. Our baby. It's been a difficult year…"

"I want to speak with him as soon as I'm decent." Lucius straightened his drab gray prison shirt, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and Hermione thought she caught a glimpse of something tattooed on his neck above the collar. "Can't have the boy seeing his father this way. He'll lose what little respect for me he has left."

"He respects you. We both do. We love you." Narcissa pressed her lips to his cheek. "Go on, now. Upstairs with you. I'll be there shortly."

He leaned down to kiss her once more. "I don't know how, Narcissa, but I'll fix this."

"Start with a shower, my love. I'll handle the rest."

Draco and Hermione hurried back down the passageway to the kitchen, knowing they had to make it back there before Narcissa did. They plopped into their respective chairs just a breath before she entered.

"Draco! Your father is home!"

"Father? Is home? My father?" Draco stood and tried to look surprised. Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. He was as bad an actor as she was. Something they had in common, then. Narcissa, in her excitement, did not seem to notice.

"I've sent him upstairs to shower and find more suitable attire. He was still in that dreary Azkaban uniform, like a common criminal!" She shuddered at the injustice of it. "Finish your food downstairs, both of you. Then we'll dress and meet him in the study in ninety minutes for puddings."

"I suppose it's back to the cell for me?" Hermione poked at her dinner with the prongs of her fork. Her appetite was gone. Surely, with Lucius back in the home, she'd again be confined to her prison.

"No. Yes. Or… I don't know. I'll… I'll tell him you're here. Draco… for now, Draco and I will escort you back to your bedroom…"

"My cell."

"For supper. And when it's time, we'll… bring you back up. This will give me ample opportunity to prepare Lucius for your presence. Which… which I'll do now. Let's get you downstairs quickly so I can speak with him. Draco, you come too. You can sit outside the cell and keep her company."

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance. Both knew full-well she wasn't in a hurry so she could 'speak to' him. But neither argued. They picked up their plates and followed her to the cellar, into the cell.

"Are you staying in here, Draco? Unless you're on the other side, I'll have to take your wand and lock you both in." Narcissa glanced at Hermione. "We can't leave it where she might-"

"You think I'm not in control enough to manage my own wand in her presence?"

"Aww, your mummy thinks I can overpower you with brute strength, Draco. Is that because I punched you once? Did you ever tell her about the time I made your nose bleed?" Hermione grinned. That memory always made her happy. It was one of her go-to's when she needed to form a Corporeal Patronus.

Draco stuck out his tongue in reply.

"No time for that now, children." Narcissa took Draco's wand. The cousins sat across from each other at her desk: him in the chair, her on the edge of the bed. Crookshanks, who had been asleep on her pillow, opened one eye, rolled over to face the wall, and ignored them.

Narcissa hurried away from the cell and up the stairs. Once her footsteps had completely faded from earshot, Hermione stabbed at her supper, grinned again at Draco, and said, "You know she's heading upstairs to have 'relations' with your father, right?"

Draco pretended to vomit onto his plate.

"Very mature, Malfoy. I think it's sweet they love each other."

"You think it's sweet because you never had the misfortune of accidentally walking in on them half-dressed, having a snog in the drawing room, in the library, the pool, the conservatory… I had a difficult childhood, Granger. You have no idea."

"Yes, how positively _awful_ it must have been for you! Some children are abandoned, abused, starving, living in poverty, but that's _nothing_ compared to the horrors little Draco Malfoy had to endure, accidentally interrupting his loving parents mid-shag all over their spacious Manor."

"I said snog, not shag."

"We both know what you meant."

Draco threw a cherry tomato at Hermione. She caught it against her chest, then laughed and threw it back, but high and to the left. He snatched it easily from the air, and popped it in his mouth.

"I'm a Seeker," he said, chewing while speaking. "I can catch anything."

"Except a girlfriend."

"I _have_ a girlfriend, Granger. Pansy Parkinson. Since fourth year."

"Oh?" asked Hermione innocently. "I didn't know pureblood boys could date girls like her."

He speared another tomato onto his fork. "What do you mean? She's pureblood."

"She's not half bulldog? Hm. Looking at her face, I could have sworn…"

This time, the cherry tomato hit Hermione square in the forehead.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

Hermione's heart was beating so hard she pressed her hands to the center of her chest, as if to keep it from exploding right out of her.

 _Pure adrenaline,_ Severus Snape explained.

 _You're lucky,_ he said. _You're lucky he didn't kill you._

She didn't feel lucky.

Snape kept talking, but her brain couldn't process his words. Something about foolishness and youth and arrogance and being her mother's daughter.

Her mother.

Her heart ached when she thought of her mother.

How could she have done that to her mother? _Again_. After all Bellatrix had done for her?

She hadn't meant to.

It just… happened.

These blow-ups... they always just... _happened._

That morning, some twelve hours after Snape killed Dumbledore, Aurors came to Malfoy Manor, seeking Draco.

Hermione, temporarily losing her mind, managed to break herself free from her cell, using that quill for a wand and the incantation she'd heard Narcissa mumble when drunk, and she'd grabbed hold of the sleeve of her cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, and she'd demanded to be set free. She said she wanted nothing to do with any of them. Not with Dumbledore and the Order, not with the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, not with anyone or anything from the wizarding world, not even Bellatrix, though she'd admitted growing to love her (this had confused three of the four Aurors).

She said she wanted to escape, in every way possible.

Bellatrix stunned Nymphadora Tonks and her partners and then wiped their memories, while Narcissa and Draco kept their wands trained on Hermione, who had been 'disarmed' of her quill.

The Dark Lord was, predictably, unhappy about Hermione's little outburst.

Hermione had been unhappy too. She'd let him know, in no uncertain terms.

And she'd paid dearly.

As had her mother.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1987**

 **(ten years ago)**

Hermione had another nightmare.

The one about the man with the red eyes.

She'd started screaming in her sleep - "Snake! Snake!" - and had to be woken by her mummy and daddy.

"She's going to be eight soon," Mrs. Granger whispered to Mr. Granger as he rocked the shaking, sobbing girl in his arms. "Shouldn't she be too old for the dream about the snakes? Should we take her back to the doctor?"

"Everyone has bad dreams," he said, shaking his head. "I keep having the one about all my teeth falling out."

"That's different," insisted Mrs. Granger. "I'm worried about her. I don't think this is normal."

"She'll be fine," Mr. Granger assured his wife. "Trust me."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

Murderer.

She was a murderer.

And the Dark Lord was pleased.

"Perhaps there _is_ hope for you, yet," he said. He patted her head and took away her mother's wand.

"Severus, return my daughter to the cellar. Bellatrix and I will be leaving." He nudged the crumpled, injured form of his lover with his toe. "As soon as she is able to pull herself together."

"Leaving, my Lord?" asked Narcissa, who'd up until this point remained silent. She had Draco's hand clasped between her own.

"More Aurors will be calling , surely, in the days to come. It would not do us well to be here when they arrive, especially if we are… surprised. Before departing, I shall strengthen the wards around the Manor. No one will be able to enter or exit except from the front door, and opening it will require both a nonverbal incantation and a password. Soon, though, the Ministry will fall, and I shall take command, officially. In the interim, the girl is not to leave her cell at any time for any reason, as she cannot be trusted, nor should she be left alone with those she might manage to…" He glanced at Draco. _"Overwhelm._ You'll keep a close eye on her and she'll not escape on you. This is your task, Mrs. Malfoy." He sneered. "Do a better job of it than your husband and son did with theirs."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Girl, say goodbye to your mother."

Hermione, who had been too sickened and stunned by her actions against the elf, hardly registered what the man was saying. Severus stepped to her, and guided her toward Bellatrix. He gestured for her to kneel. She obeyed. Staring down upon her mother's limp, pale form seemed to shock her system into working again, and she threw herself over the woman's body, listening for her breathing, hoping no permanent damage had been done.

"Mother," she whispered. "Mummy? Are you alright?"

"I'll live." Bellatrix tried to sit up. Hermione helped her.

"I don't want you to leave." Hermione's whisper was teeming with worry as her hand found that of her mother's. "I don't want him to hurt you."

"Hush." Bellatrix pulled Hermione to her.

"I'm so sorry, Mummy. I'm sorry I got you hurt again. I'm sorry I can't control my emotions. I'm sorry I… I'm sorry I… I love you, Mummy and I'm sorry!"

"Hush," Bellatrix repeated. "Hush."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1978**

 **(nineteen years ago)**

"You look beautiful."

She smiled. She hadn't heard him coming up behind her, but she'd sensed he was there. She was good at that, these days. She was starting to feel that she knew him as well as she knew herself.

This was the sort of soiree she'd never enjoyed, but that her sister Narcissa positively lived for. Cousin Regulus Black's seventeenth birthday. It was not quite as elaborate affair as the coming-of-age party of girls in the old pureblood families, but it was large and fancy and everyone came from far and wide wearing their best robes and most expensive jewelry, intending to show off. They were in the large drawing room in Grimmauld Place, enjoying cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres and listening to that wretched Celestina what's-her-name on the Wireless (Great-Aunt Cassiopeia was a fan).

The Dark Lord had been kind enough to grace the family with his presence, a gift for all they'd given him – namely, their son, as his seventeenth birthday meant he'd be officially taking the Dark Mark later, at a special ceremony very few of these party guests would be invited to attend.

Uncle Orion was certainly proud, glad to have one son who wasn't a complete fuck-up, a disowned waste of oxygen, a blood-traitor, unlike Sirius. Orion was a Death Eater himself, though his poor health kept him from doing much to further their cause – not that bankrolling their more covert endeavors wasn't of importance.

"Your hair, like this... it's quite becoming."

Her hair had been straightened and ornately plated, teeny braids leading into slightly larger braids wrapped around a braided bun. It had taken the house-elves hours to do.

"Thank you, my Lord. Forgive me for fishing for compliments, but do you like the dress?"

She could hear the smile in his voice when he answered, his voice low, "I like you in this dress almost as much as I'd like you out of it."

She smirked but didn't respond, not yet. She surveyed the room, sipped her wine, and pretended she had no idea he was standing directly behind her, likely looking straight down the front of her form-fitting bodice.

"Your uncle says his son is excited about the festivities planned for after dark." He breathed in, inhaling the sweet rosy scent of her hair.

"Am _I_ invited to the festivities after dark, my Lord?" she asked coyly, quietly, her goblet up to her lips.

When he replied, his breath tickled her ear and neck. He was close enough that he could flick out his tongue and taste her skin, had he wanted to.

"You, Mrs. Lestrange, are invited to the festivities after dark, and you are additionally invited to a second series of festivities to commence after the aforementioned festivities have been concluded."

They'd been sleeping together for a year and seven months, and somehow thus far managed to keep it secret from everyone, including her sister, her parents, and, quite possibly, her husband. (Who seemingly suspected, but would never ask outright.) She was generally fine with keeping things covert. She was married, after all, and a respectable woman in society's eyes, one disinterested in sullying the family name. She couldn't help feeling just the tiniest bit of shame over what she'd spent the last year and a half doing, cuckolding her husband, regularly abandoning her marital bed for the bed of another – though if given the chance, she'd divorce her husband and not look back. She'd relish not having to live, and love, in secret.

Nights like this were especially difficult.

She wanted the world to know she was the mistress of the Dark Lord. She wanted them all to know how special and valued and respected by him she was. And she wanted other women to know he was off-limits.

"Evangeline Chaucer looked happy to see you tonight, my Lord." She said it lightly, hoping he wouldn't realize how much it bothered her to see the woman practically throwing herself at him in front of everyone. "She was petting you like a kitten."

"Are you afraid Evangeline Chaucer might be capable of making me purr?" His hand went to the small of her back. He rubbed his thumb over the thin material of her gown, going lower. "Hm. No lines. Are you forgoing undergarments this evening, you minx?"

"What an inappropriate question to ask of a lady!" She stifled a giggle. A shiver went up her spine as his hand explored… even lower. The room was crowded and loud and they were close enough to the wall that it was unlikely anyone would see what he was doing, but the fact that he was doing it in potential plain sight of their entire social circle made her want to pounce on him.

"There is an empty guest bedroom upstairs, the third floor one on the right in which I've stayed on occasion," he said. "You know which…?"

"I do, yes."

"In five minutes, I expect to find you there, naked and kneeling."

"Are you certain you want _me_ in the room, my Lord, and not Evangeline Chaucer?"

"I wasn't the only one being pawed at this evening, my Bella." He practically growled her name. His hand slipped down to cup her arse. She glanced back in time to see his eyes flash dangerously. She followed his gaze across the room to a portly, obscenely wealthy man of around fifty, with a blond mustache. "Merrick Parkinson's hands seemed to be wandering without a guide not fifteen minutes ago. I thought he was going to grab your breast to 'better examine' your broach."

"He's always doing that to women, my Lord. Hugging too long, running a fingertip down the arm, 'accidentally' brushing against the lower back… At a dinner party when I was fifteen, he was seated beside me, and I nearly spilled my pumpkin juice when his hand suddenly found my upper thigh."

"He's going to find himself without hands if he cannot keep his to himself."

"Jealous, my Lord?"

"Not at all. Merely interested in protecting my investment." His lips ever-so-briefly brushed against her cheek, and then he swiftly moved away from her, sliding seamlessly into a conversation halfway across the room in seconds. His eyes met hers over the shoulder of Walden Macnair, and he mouthed, "Five minutes."

She was in that upstairs room, naked and kneeling, in under two.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

After the Aurors had been permitted to do their little walkthrough, they'd spoken at length with Draco, who confirmed that Dumbledore had been killed by Snape but swore he had no idea why Harry was so certain Hermione had been there at Hogwarts when the only short woman with bushy brown hair was a Death Eater whose name he couldn't recall. Eventually, they reluctantly departed, but promised to return.

"Tell me, Nymphadora," said Narcissa smoothly, while showing the lingering girl to the door. The other three Aurors were already on the steps, waiting. "Are you as great a disappointment to your mother as Andromeda was to mine?"

"You'll do best to keep my mother's name out of your mouth, Mrs. Malfoy."

"I heard you married recently." Narcissa lowered her voice, leaning in close to the pink-haired young woman. "Was it before or after you conceived the werewolf's pup?"

Nymphadora paled.

"How do you…? I haven't… No one knows! I only just found out myself."

"I would do anything to protect my child. You'll understand what that's like soon enough. If anything – or anyone – should harm him…"

"I have no desire to harm my cousin." Nymphadora dropped her voice too, and stepped closer to her aunt, trapping her against the wall. " _Either_ of my cousins. Where is she, Narcissa? I know she was at Hogwarts last night. I know Draco is lying. The Daily Prophet can call Harry Potter delusional to their heart's content, but a dozen Order members and several students saw her in the halls, saw her running from the castle with Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape. I know she was there."

"I don't know what all of you think you saw, Miss Tonks. Excuse me, _Mrs. Lupin_." Narcissa regarded her coldly. "But I assure you, you've only ever had two cousins. My son and my daughter. One, you've just interrogated. The other is dead. As for Hermione Granger, she is a Muggleborn, and therefore would not be welcome here; almost as unwelcome as you are, in fact." She brought her volume back up, pushed past Nymphadora, and stood by the open door. "Thank you all for coming, but as you've plainly seen, my family has nothing to hide. My son was but an innocent bystander, a witness, who ran out of fear and the need for self-preservation and nothing more, and he has no else to say to you. Good day."

"Good day, Mrs. Malfoy," said the second female Auror, which was echoed by the two men. Nymphadora did not bid her adieu.

The moment the door was closed, Narcissa slumped against it, her back to the wood, facing the hall with a pained expression on her pale face. All of the strength she'd summoned to get through the afternoon had washed out of her, and she was on the verge of physical and emotional collapse.

But there was no time.

The Dark Lord demanded to see them all in the drawing room. Bellatrix, Narcissa, Draco, Snape… and Hermione.

He turned his wand on the girl. Having to wait to punish her until the Aurors had been satisfied and sent back to the Ministry had not tempered his fury.

"What was that little display, Hermione?"

"Was I unclear? I want out! I want out of here, out of this Manor, out of this world! I renounce my status as a witch, I have no loyalty to either side, and I am no longer willing to sit idly by hoping you'll allow me to have my wand returned only to be teased with it and have it taken away, only to be used when you need me and discarded when you don't." She slipped from her long sleeve the quill she'd used to curse Professor Snape, and slashed it through the air as she had that night. "Sectumsempra!"

The severing charm connecting with the upper right forearm of the shocked Dark Lord, who stepped back and slapped a palm over the bleeding wound.

"That, my dear girl, was a mistake. You dare disrespect your fath-"

"I am not your dear girl! You are my father in blood only, not in name, not in my heart, not in any way that matters! I'll show you only the respect I feel you deserve, which is to say, less than the lowest house-elf, less than the grimiest grindylow, less than-"

"It was a mistake!" He wrenched his hand off the wound and focused his wand on her.

"It was not! I attacked you on purpose, and I-"

"I meant, keeping you alive all this time, that was a mistake! I've given too much time to you already, waiting for your mother to win your loyalty, watching her fall all over herself trying to make you happy and comfortable, and you care not a whit, you ungrateful girl. I demand your respect! You owe it to me."

"I owe you nothing. Not my gratitude, not my respect, not even my life, for had you had any say, I'd reckon you wouldn't have wanted me born in the first place! You are nothing to me, you are nothing to anyone!"

(At this, Bellatrix gasped.)

"You, sir, are a vicious, ignorant, pathetic old man who thinks it is better to be feared than revered! In a myriad of ways, you and Dumbledore, you're exactly the same! Selfish, myopic men who think their 'greater good' is more important than the good of individuals, who-"

This Cruciatus hurt even more this time than it had the last, and lasted longer too. After the initial agony shocked her senses, she began to dissociate to escape it, and calmly mentally reflected upon how easy it was to imagine how people ended up broken like Alice Longbottom, after enduring this pain for too long. It was like being simultaneously stabbed and set on fire while trying to run on glass. Her body twisted and twitched and jerked and jolted, and the screams… she almost couldn't believe the screams she could hear were her own.

But Bellatrix could not watch.

As she'd done before, she threw herself over the girl's body, taking the curse to spare her daughter from it, and screamed for him to stop.

"Witch!" He grabbed Bellatrix by the hair and pulled her to her feet. "Have I lost your loyalty, too? Have we not been through this?"

"She didn't know what she was doing! She… she's never seen death before, my Lord! Last night was her first time. She was… overwhelmed. In a state of shock. Temporarily mad. Traumatized. She's sorry. _I'm_ sorry! I should have known she wouldn't be ready, I should have realized it was a mistake to bring her along. Don't punish her, my Lord, punish _me_. But I promise you, it won't happen again. She-"

This time, he intentionally directed his Cruciatus at Bellatrix, and let her scream and writhe and cry as Hermione had, seemingly using at least twice as much of his magical strength on the woman has he had on the girl. As soon as she was able to force herself to move, Hermione crawled to him and clutched at the bottom of his robes and begged him to stop, even though doing so made her feel like one of his servants, like a slimy lowlife Wormtail. And even though she was still in near-excruciating pain. It hurt to talk, hurt to breathe, but she forced herself. She had to.

"Please, sir, please, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt my mother. Please stop hurting my mother! Please! Please, I…I'm sorry! She… she loves you!" Hermione tugged at his robe. "How can you hurt her when she _loves_ you?"

His wand lowered. Bellatrix collapsed to the floor, unable to stand, unable to speak.

"Have I not made myself clear, Hermione?"

"Cl… clear?"

"I'll not tolerate disloyalty, or disrespect."

"Sir, I-"

"Hush. I'll not tolerate it, and I do not know how much longer I can stand to tolerate you. You are a massive _disappointment_ as a daughter. I thought we might be able to meld you, to mold you, to make you into what you always should have been, had you not been most unfortunately raised by Muggles. But I fear it is a lost cause, one that is taking up far too much of your mother's time and energy."

On the floor, Bellatrix twitched and whimpered. She wanted to rise to defend her daughter, but clearly could not.

"You've shown so much promise, Hermione. Talented with a wand. Talented with a quill! A brilliant mind. Academically gifted. So much… _potential_." He spit the word out as if it were a negative. "That disgusting display this afternoon tells me you've made little progress over the past year – I give the tiniest bit of credit because you did not wish to return to Potter and Dumbledore's Order – but not what we would have hoped, or even expected. Not only can I not waste any more time on you, I cannot have your mother continue to waste her time, either. She is valuable to me. You, frankly, are not."

Hermione, still on her knees, bowed her head, for as much as she hated the man before her, she couldn't help feeling hurt by his words. He was, after all, her father.

"As valuable as she is to me, should you escape, or even attempt to do so again as you did today, I'll kill her. I'll kill her, and you'll have cost me my most valuable possession. Stolen her away."

"My mother is not your possession," Hermione whispered fiercely.

"Asset, then. My most valuable asset. And I do not take kindly to those who take away what is mine."

Bellatrix squirmed and let out a low cry of pain. She was trying to pull herself into a seated position, trying to speak, but was unable to do either.

"This feels redundant, this discussion, this scenario. The crying, the begging, the shouting, the torture. We've been through it all before haven't we? Should I save us both the trouble of having to go through all this again in the future, and simply kill her now?" He turned his wand on Bellatrix. Hermione gasped.

"No, please, my Lord! Don't hurt her again. Don't kill her. Don't… I'll never… I won't do that, or anything like that, ever again, I promise. I… I… I lost my head, like she said. I've never seen someone… someone _murdered_ , and I… I felt afraid. I felt ashamed."

"Ashamed?" (Now _this_ was perplexing.)

"In… in the moments before it happened… sir… before Professor Snape used the Killing Curse, I was… angry. Sickened by what Dumbledore had done. And I… I wanted him dead. I… I almost saw myself doing it, I… I might have done it, if Professor Snape hadn't…"

(Had the Dark Lord an eyebrow to raise, he would be doing so.)

"I've never felt that way before, sir. I… I've never felt so… so evil! But I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to kill him, and I… I hated that feeling, sir. After… after getting back here, and that night, and all day today, thinking about it, and… and hating myself for feeling that way, I just wanted out. Out of here, out of the entire wizarding world, out of everything. I… I lost my head. Please, please don't kill my mother. Please. I love her. More than… more than…" The faces of the Granger, people she'd probably never see again, flashed across her mind's eye. "More than I can make you understand! Please, please, I'm sorry." She started to sob. "I'm sorry."

The Dark Lord smiled.

"You felt the urge to kill, did you?"

She nodded miserably.

He gestured toward Narcissa. "Fetch a house-elf."

She hurriedly obliged.

He handed Hermione the wand of her mother, which had fallen to the floor while she was being tortured.

"Show me."

"Excuse me?"

"The elf. You're going to summon up all you felt last night when looking upon Dumbledore, and you're going to kill the elf."

"But… but the elf is innocent. The elf didn't do anything! The elf is a living, breathing-"

He turned his wand once more on Bellatrix.

"Whose life matters more, girl? That elf's… or your mother's?"

Hermione looked upon the elf. She was the eldest one in the household, her ears were droopy, she rarely worked anymore because she was losing it, mentally, according to Narcissa (who pitied her). Hermione had a feeling her aunt had chosen this one on purpose, perhaps knowing what the Dark Lord would ask of her. She wasn't sure whether to feel furious or grateful.

"Look upon this elf, and see Albus Dumbledore. Tell the elf how you felt last night. Tell it why. Tell it what Albus Dumbledore did to make you angry enough to want to _kill_."

"He… he wanted me drowned. As a baby. He wanted me dead."

"Did he? Tell the elf. 'You wanted me drowned as a baby. You…'"

"You wanted me dead!" Hermione tried to envision Dumbledore, and not this sad little elderly elf, standing before her. "You ordered me drowned because of who my parents are! You thought I'd be a danger to the world, so you decided I should be removed from it! You thought it was for the greater good!"

"Tell Dumbledore, girl. Tell him how you feel about his 'greater good.'"

"I was a baby!" Hermione's wand hand shook, then steadied. She was not seeing the elf anymore, but she wasn't seeing Dumbledore either. She was seeing red. She was seeing herself as a newborn, still bloodied from birth, ripped away from her loving mother's breast by a guard who intended to hold her tiny baby body in the water, on the Headmaster's order. "What kind of man – what kind of _monster_? – demands that of someone?"

"You're not the only one he's ordered dead." The Dark Lord moved to stand behind her, and hissed into her ear. "He's responsible for countless deaths, Hermione. Women. Children. You know what his soldiers did to your aunt."

She couldn't simply _see_ red, she could feel red. Red like fire, like lava seeping from her veins. Hot fury. Her pain morphed into sheer, untethered anger, completely consuming her. She could see the man in the tower, his blackened hand, his twinkling blue eyes, his half-moon spectacles. He had always seemed and benevolent omniscient godlike character, a venerable headmaster, a man deserving not only of admiration, but adoration. She saw that man last night, looking him straight in the eye, and told him he was no better than the Dark Lord.

 _"Yes,"_ he'd replied. _"I know."_

No apology. No explanation.

Just, _"Yes. I know."_

And then Severus was there.

"Avada Kedavra!"

And he was falling.

But, no. No, it wasn't Dumbledore. It was the elf. It was the little old house elf with the droopy ears, the one who couldn't work anymore.

She was falling.

To the floor.

Dead.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1978**

 **(nineteen years ago)**

When he entered the upstairs room, she was naked and kneeling, as directed.

And he was already hard.

He locked the door, slipped off his wizard's robe, and began unfastening his tented trousers.

"I see you left your shoes on."

"You like it when I leave my shoes on. They make me pretty, don't they?"

"Men were looking at you tonight, and not one of them was focused on your feet." He slipped his cock free through his trouser placard and began stroking himself, staring down at her.

"I don't understand, my Lord." She feigned innocence. "If not my pretty shoes, what could those men have been looking at?"

"Your dress. Your hair. Your neck. The curve of your hips. The swell of your breasts. I've been painfully hard for half an hour; I'm certain I'm not the only man here tonight glad that wizard's robes billow."

"You think other men are hard for me, my Lord?"

"I think they'd be insane not to be." He worked his hand into the back of her hair. "But you won't be pleasuring any of them before dinner, will you?"

"Not before, during, or after, my Lord."

"The most brilliant and beautiful woman in the room is mine, and no one can know. Have you any idea how frustrating that is for me, my Bella?"

She blinked up at him, her heavy-lidded eyes framed by dark, thick lashes. "As frustrating as it is for _me_ when a cow like Evangeline Chaucer is making eyes at you across the cheese plate?"

He stifled a groan and brought his tip to her lips.

"Now, Bella. I need you."

She did not have to be told twice.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

Bellatrix cradled her adult daughter to her and glanced up at the Dark Lord, who was eyeing them disdainfully. No, not quite disdainfully… he was eyeing them the way he used to eye other men, men who would talk to her and flirt with her, men who expressed interest in her back when he was adamant no one should know just how much of her belonged to him.

Jealously.

She closed her eyes and kissed Hermione's temple.

Her master and lover was jealous, not of another man vying for her attention, but of his own daughter.

He knew he'd been replaced as the number one most important person in her life, the person to whom she owed her greatest loyalty. He knew she loved another as much as – or more than – she did him.

And he clearly didn't like it one bit.

"I love you," whispered Hermione. "I won't let him hurt you again."

"Hush," said Bellatrix yet again. She wanted to add, 'I won't let him hurt you again, either,' but she was afraid he would hear. So instead she said, "Mind your aunt while I'm away. Continue your studies. Read. Make me proud."

"Yes, Mother," said Hermione. "All of that, I promise, I will."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1978**

 **(nineteen years ago)**

She licked and sucked and stroked him while he scratched his nails across the back of her head, mussing her carefully straightened and styled hair. He gave a guttural groan and she knew he was close, so she sucked harder, prepared to swallow, but he suddenly stopped her.

"On the bed, Bella."

"My Lord, we'll be late for the meal."

"I'm not hungry for food." He gestured for her to do as directed, so she did. She settled on her back, one hand toying with her hardened nipple, the other lightly brushing against her inner thigh, awaiting further orders. But rather than telling her to touch herself, or even to touch him, he positioned himself at the edge of the bed, parted her thighs, and buried his face between them.

She moaned, her head tilted back, her back arched, all too happy to let him fuck her with his tongue. His circled her clit several times before sucking it into his mouth, and he slid two fingers inside her, and he didn't stop until she'd bitten her arm bloody to keep from screaming his name loud enough for all of the guests two floors below them to hear.

And he wasn't finished when she was.

He crawled on top of her, she unfastened his robes, and in no time at all he, too, had been completely divested of his attire. He grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed hard as her hand slipped between them to massage her clit.

"Does your husband know about us?" he hissed into her ear, his breath hot against her lobe. "Does he know what I do to you when we're alone?"

"No," she whispered. "He knows you summon me, he knows we've spent the night together, but I've not given him details."

"I want him to know." He guided his cock to her entrance, but did not press into her. Not yet. "I want him to know how you suck me, how I lick you…"

She moaned, her hips jerked, and the two fingers she was using on herself began to move more erratically.

"I want him to know I alone have brought you pleasure beyond your wildest imagination, far more than he ever could have dreamed of doing, far more than he is capable." The Dark Lord guided himself into her, stretching her, but he refused to move, not even when she bucked against him.

"Yes, my Lord."

"My Bella, I want him to know. I want him to know the wanton way you look at me, the way you drink down my come like Firewhisky, the way your eyelids flutter when I take you over the edge. I want him to know my cock has been inside you more times in the last year than his has been in all the pussies of the Knockturn Alley brothel over the past decade. I want him to know…" He nipped her earlobe. "I want him to know, while he's home having pudding and playing gobstones with his brother, I'm in bed with his beautiful wife."

She moaned again; he rarely spoke to her this way, even in bed, opting for a different, more elevated and distanced sort of bedroom talk most of the time, but she loved every filthy moment. He began to move his hips then, and she moved with him. They moved together in a rhythm they'd spent all of the past year and a half establishing. Perfecting.

"When you walked in on his arm tonight, it took all of my willpower, dear Bella, not to curse him into oblivion and leave with you slung over my shoulder, like a possessive Neanderthal carrying home his latest kill."

"Take me away from him, my Lord. Steal me. Claim me. Tell him I belong to you!"

He stilled. She groaned with frustration, but still he stayed.

"I told you years ago, Bella, that I did not wish to be like other men, common men, men whose weakness is women, women who lead to their downfall."

"How could I lead to your downfall, my Lord, when I seek nothing more than to build you up?"

"I hate having to keep what I have with you private. You believe me, don't you?"

"I know you'd never lie to me, my Lord."

He smiled down at her. She was so naïve, so trusting, so _blind_ , when it came to him. This, of course, worked to his advantage. It made her easy to manipulate.

"You know, in your heart, you are mine and mine alone."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And no one shall ever come between us."

"Not ever, my Lord."

"You are my most loyal, most faithful…" He grunted and grinded into her, resuming thrusting. "My most worthy and valuable follower."

"Yes, my Lord, yes, yes!"

He gripped her hips and quickened his pace. _Fuck. So close._

"No one shall ever come before me, no one should ever be placed on a pedestal higher than-"

"No one, my Lord, only you!" She cupped his face and drew him down into a searing kiss. When it was over, when they parted only because they had to breathe, she said the words he knew he'd likely someday end up saying back… saying back, but never meaning.

"I love you." She kissed him quickly and said it again. "I love you. I love you."

And then he was spent.


	22. ON THE RUN AND RETURNED

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:**

 **ON THE RUN AND RETURNED**

 **21 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Bellatrix was exhausted. And whiny.

"We haven't slept in the same place twice, my Lord. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and this place might have fleas."

"Would you like to go back to Azkaban and sleep there?" he asked, as he pulled his nightshirt over his head. "They'll may even feed you, if you're peckish."

She shook her head and pouted. They'd been on the run for three weeks, and he was as short with her on Day Twenty-One as he'd been on Day One. Tonight, they were in a small, dingy Muggle inn, located at the intersection of Nowhere and Nothing. Bellatrix couldn't believe there even was an inn in such a place. Except for people hiding out from Muggle (or Magical) law, who would stay here?

She'd checked in alone, as his appearance didn't exactly lend itself to traveling incognito (unlike in hi younger days, when they only had to worry about him being noticed for being so handsome). She'd therefore pretended to have come alone, feeding the innkeeper a line about being a stranded traveler, waiting until her car could be repaired.

"On your way to one of those dress-up conventions?" asked the innkeeper. At her bewildered expression, he gestured toward her attire. It was the Muggle ensemble she'd worn frequently in the '70s, when she had to blend in with the non-magic folks. Bell-bottom blue jeans, tight burnt orange cap-sleeved shirt… she'd even straightened her hair as she used to back then, long, parted down the middle. It earned her different looks these days than it had then, which she'd attributed to the fact that she'd aged more than twenty years since she bought it.

"What's wrong with this?" she asked, wishing she'd worn the dress taken from Andromeda instead. But Hermione had previously assured her everyone still wore jeans.

"You're serious?" He laughed. "Can't be serious. You look like Cher. Remember Cher?" He started to sing _. "Gypsies, tramps and thieves…"_

She'd been annoyed by this point, and whipped out her wand. "Show me to my room."

A few minutes and light Obliviate later, she was settled in and Summoning the Dark Lord to join her.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 July, 1997**

 **(three weeks ago)**

"I'm a murderer."

If Hermione thought she was in shock the night before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Numb. Broken. As if she'd never know happiness again – and certain she'd never deserve to.

"You did as he wanted you to," said Severus Snape. He sat beside her on the bed. She was on her back, staring unblinking up at the ceiling, expressionless. He'd been there before.

"What he wanted me to."

"You showed him you are capable of killing. It is, perhaps, the only thing that kept you alive."

"Alive. I'm not lucky to be alive. That's what you said earlier. That I'm lucky to be alive. But you're wrong."

"I said you're lucky he didn't kill you. Not quite the same as being lucky to be alive."

"Lucky." She pressed her right palm to the center of her chest. Her heart was doing that thing again. Beating much too hard. Threatening to escape her chest as she'd attempted to escape her prison. His hand rested delicately atop hers. He had a new callus on the heel of his hand. She repositioned them so it was his hands against her skin, with her hand pressing down on top. He tried not to fidget.

"Can you feel it?" she whispered.

"You heart? No. Pounding?"

"Yes."

"Adrenaline?"

"Guilt."

"Guilt alone does not make a person's heart pound."

She released his hand. He put it in his lap.

"Do you suppose he'll hurt her again, Professor? My mother? Once they've gone to… wherever they're going?"

"No." Severus sneered as bitterness creeped into his voice. "If my childhood is any indication, he'll tell her he had to hurt her, that he didn't want to, but it was necessary to prove a point, to help you understand, or some rubbish like that. She'll apologize and he'll be gentle with her, letting her believe gentleness is his nature, and the blows were merely a reasonable reaction to her actions." Severus' hands closed into fists. "My father always found a way to blame my mother for her own abuse, to justify it, and to ensure she ended up apologizing to him."

"How did you live through it? Your childhood?" Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, and it was almost a relief, as it means she was still able to _feel_. "How did you make it through every day knowing you were the creation of a pitiable woman and the man who abused her?"

"I read."

"Read what?"

"Anything. Everything. Books, plays, newspapers, pamphlets, comics, the backs of Muggle soup cans."

"Did that help?"

"Not the soup cans."

She half-smiled. "But the rest?"

He sighed, his hands relaxed, and he nodded. "I read for three reasons: education, distraction, and compulsion. I read textbooks and other educational tomes with the hope that education would someday take me far from my home and life, I read fiction to distract me from the darkness of reality, and I read soup cans and the like because I developed an addiction to reading, if such a thing is possible, and found I could not be in the presence of words without needing to know what they said."

"That's how I was when I learned to read." She took his hand again. "I had to read everything. Street signs, advertisements, restaurant menus…"

"There are worse addictions." Severus slipped her hand away from hers, but didn't object when she turned onto her side and cuddled closer to him. He stroked her hair in what he hoped was a soothing way. Being a comfort to her these last two nights had felt good, had made him feel needed, the way it was when Narcissa was at her worst points all those years ago. He found he liked it.

"Professor? Tell me about your mother."

"My mother…" He closed his eyes, remembering her. "My mother's name was Eileen Prince. She was a shy, studious girl with few friends – a bit like your mother in that way, though she lacked your mother's…" He cleared his throat. "She wasn't as attractive, by conventional standards, I suppose."

"You think my mother is attractive?"

"I think others think she's attractive."

Hermione smiled toward the ceiling. Crookshanks jumped onto the bed and placed his front paws on her stomach, beginning to knead. She stroked his back. "What else, Professor? About your mother, I mean."

"She enjoyed gobstones, word puzzles, baking. She started teaching me to bake when I was about two, but we had to keep it a secret from my father, who thought developing domestic skills would turn me soft." Severus pushed from his mind the memory of watching his mother get beaten for having let him help her with the pate-a-choux dough for eclairs the day his father surprised them by coming home early, having just been fired from his latest job. Tobias Snape had entered the kitchen to find his wife and son singing along with the radio, wearing matching aprons (though Severus' was in a smaller size, as he was only six), and squeezing out dough onto a pan.

Tobias had broken Eileen's nose for that one, and accused her of trying to turn their son into 'a fucking fairy.' When Severus cried and begged him to stop, it only made him angrier.

She'd actually left him that time, left him for a good three weeks, and Severus had hoped they'd never return.

But she always returned.

"You got quiet," said Hermione softly. "Is it too painful to talk about?"

"My mother thought she needed my father. She said she couldn't raise me alone. I don't think she meant it to, but that made me feel like it was my fault he was able to continue hurting her. If she didn't have me, she could have left. But she was stuck with him because she was saddled with me."

"I hope, being an adult now, you realize that's not true."

"I used to spy on Lil… on a friend who lived nearby. Her parents adored each other, much like Narcissa and Lucius. It was clear they were married because they wanted to be, not because one needed the other to survive, and had to suffer as a result. My friend's parents didn't like me much, they thought me odd, but sometimes after dark I hid in the tree in their backyard and watched them through the windows. I watched the entire family. I liked to see them taking tea and imagine they were discussing their day, then I'd watch them curl up on the couch together to watch the telly. I wanted that."

"Sounds like you were a lonely child who wanted a normal life. I can relate. I had no friends before Harry and Ron, and had they not come to save me from that troll first year, I don't think we'd ever have gotten to know each other."

"I was indeed a lonely child. One who fantasized about killing my father and getting away with it." He couldn't believe he was confessing this to her. Only Lily and Lucius had ever known that he'd started studying Dark Magic not because he was a Slytherin or because he wanted to become a Death Eater, but because he wanted to figure out a way to kill his father and make it look like an accident.

"Tonight, I wanted to kill mine." She scrunched up her nose as a couple of tears eked out. "How did it feel when you used the Killing Curse on Professor Dumbledore?"

"Like a weight had been lifted." He gently took her by the shoulders and guided her into a seated position, facing him. "I do not advocate killing people, Miss Black. Hermione."

"I murdered a house-elf today. A sweet, innocent elf, one who had done nothing…"

"And that action likely saved your life, as I've told you multiple times now."

"Was it worth it, though? Taking a life to save my own?"

"You also saved your mother, in the process. Was that worth it?"

Hermione averted her gaze. "I don't know how to feel about her. I think she loves me more than anyone in the world, she tells me she does, and I want to believe her. But how can she, when I'm such a disappointment? I don't think I'll ever be like her, like them. It's confusing. On the one hand, I want to make her proud, but on the other… on the other, there's Tonks and Remus, and Harry and Ron, and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, and Hagrid, and Luna… What would they say if they saw me today, using the Killing Curse on a house-elf as if her life meant nothing?""

"Life is a series of choices, and sometimes we don't see the right one until we've already chosen wrong." He leaned forward, tempted to press his lips to her forehead, but as he didn't quite trust himself, he pulled back instead, stood, and stretched. "Occlumency. Have you been practicing? I cannot stress strongly enough how important the skill is. Let's have lesson."

"Now?!"

"Yes, now. Try not to let your head inflate too greatly at this revelation, but yours is perhaps the most impressive minds I've taught, and I'd like to avoid seeing it destroyed by the Cruciatus, manipulated by the Imperius, erased by Obliviation, or invaded like that dunderhead Potter's." He settled himself on the other side of the desk, wand in front of him, back straight, reading to be completely professional. "A mind is a terrible thing to waste, as they say, and to waste time is, perhaps, even worse. Look alive. Let's begin."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **21 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Draco and Hermione were through with their meal and deep into a game of Wizard's Chess when they heard footsteps coming down the stairs, steps that sounded too heavy to be Narcissa's, too loud to belong to Severus, and too rough to be Lucius'.

"Well, what have we here?" He was tall, somehow both slender and stocky, with scraggly black hair, several days' worth of stubble, and a prominent neck tattoo. He wore prison garb, and was picking his teeth with the tip of a crooked dagger, staring hungrily at the girl behind the bars. "Good evening."

"Uncle." Draco stood quickly, nearly upending the chessboard. "Hermione, this is my uncle, Rodolphus. He's… you know. Her husband."

"The Dark Lord informs me I have a stepdaughter… of sorts." Rodolphus approached the bars. "Boy, let me in so I can properly make her acquaintance."

"I can't," said Draco, suddenly glad his mother had taken his wand. "I don't have a wand and even if I did, they haven't told me the incantation. I'm locked in here until one of our mothers comes down." He glanced at Hermione. "Besides, Uncle, I don't know that Auntie would want you to-"

"Did Hermione here tell you we met at the Ministry?" He flashed a grin, his eyes sweeping up and down her body. "Have you seen the birthmark, boy? It goes from the heel of her foot all the way up to that sweet arse."

"I haven't much experience with having cousins around regularly," said Draco coldly, looking very much like his mother, "But I don't believe it is customary for them to spend much time looking at each other's arses, so no, I can't say that I've seen it."

This wasn't entirely true. He'd seen her in both shorts and a bathing costume, which meant he'd seen most of the birthmark, but that hardly seemed to matter, considering.

"Show the boy, Hermione. Shimmy out of those jeans. Let's see it. Let's see what that bitch denied me access to in the Ministry. Tell me, have you ever been buggered? No? Don't worry, first time for everything. Show us what you're hiding under those clothes."

Hermione stared up at Rodolphus, forcing herself to remain expressionless. She was channeling her inner Severus Snape… and also hoping he would, by some miracle, just happen to arrive soon, even though her next tutoring session wasn't scheduled until 10pm.

"I have no desire to show you anything, Lestrange. Now, if you'd excuse us, we were in the middle of a game, and I was about to place Draco in check, so-"

"He'll have you check-mated in two moves." Rodolphus gestured toward the board. "He's going to take your queen. And what are you without your queen?" He glanced around the cell, spinning his knife in his hand. "Completely unprotected."

Draco laughed, a fake-sounding laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Perhaps I've spent too much time on the Quidditch pitch facing Gryffindors, Uncle, but that sounded like a threat!"

"Did it?"

"It did!" Draco laughed again. "But I know you wouldn't threaten my cousin, though. Not considering who her parents are."

"She's the filthy Muggle-raised mongrel of the whore I married and whoever she happened to be fucking forty weeks before the little pigeon was born."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance. Was it really possible that Rodolphus Lestrange, of all people, didn't know about Bellatrix and the Dark Lord?

"You don't know who her father is?" asked Draco, incredulously.

"No," said Rodolphus. " _You_ know who?"

"Do _I_ know who?" Draco asked.

"Yes," said Rodolphus. "You know who?"

"Yes," said Draco. "Precisely. You-Know-Who."

Despite the tension and the fact she'd been close to terrified only seconds ago, remembering her last encounter with Lestrange, Hermione giggled.

"Yes," she said. "He's right. You-Know-Who."

"I _don't_ know who!" This seemed to infuriate Rodolphus. "How do _you_ know who? Did she tell you?"

 _"You-Know-Who,"_ said Draco, insistently.

 _"I don't know who!"_ Rodolphus slammed his hand against the bars. "Tell me."

"He told you!" said Hermione. "He said, 'You-Know-Who.' But you Death Eaters probably know him better as the-"

"Don't say it."

"Dark-"

"No."

"Lord."

"Fuck you!" Rodolphus' arm slipped between the bars, as he brandished his dagger toward the cousins. "You're lying! And I'll cut you both into sausage chunks and feed you to the wolves if you don't-"

"Lestrange!"

Moving silently as always, Severus Snape had entered the cellar undetected. His wand was out, and his face was impassive, but his tone had been hard.

"Back away from my students. I can't imagine either of their mothers would approve of your behavior. Nor do I."

"This is not over." Rodolphus glared first at Draco, then at Hermione, though his gaze again dropped and lingered around her breasts. "If you brats are lying to me-"

"Goodnight, Lestrange." Severus stepped closer. Though the other man was tall, he was taller, and in the dim light there was something quite foreboding about his thin, angular features and the shape of his shoulders as he stared down at the elder man. "It is time for you to go."

"I'll go." Rodolphus sneered. "But you can't protect her forever, Snape. That little bitch knows what she owes me. And I always collect what I'm owed."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **25 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

It was late morning and Bellatrix was sitting up in bed, on top of the blankets, reading an article about women's reproductive health in a Muggle magazine that was mostly about sex and dating. At the small desk in the corner of their tiny rented room, the Dark Lord combed through the Daily Prophet. It was difficult getting a hold of the newspaper during their time on the run, as they couldn't exactly have it special delivered by Prophet owls, but she'd managed to steal today's issue from a witch she spotted in a small wizarding market while the Dark Lord was pacing back in their latest hidey-hole.

She had again been traveling incognito, but had decided to forgo the bellbottoms and tight tee in favor of the dress she'd been given by Andromeda, with the hope of avoiding any more comparisons to Cher. Plus she was hoping, should anyone recognize her, she could pretend to be her sister.

Her hair was tied back, wrestled into a long, thick braid, which made the silvery strands stand out more. She was losing weight again, which made her cheekbones look too high and hollow, and she'd had to use a shrinking charm on the cups of her bra – why did she always seem to lose weight _there_ first? She had no makeup on, as she'd brought very little with her on the run, and as a result she felt painfully drab and unattractive. It didn't help that the Dark Lord hadn't touched her in over three weeks, except once to smack her backside, moving her out of his way, when he stepped into the shower with her a few mornings prior. She'd hoped that would lead to more, but alas – once he was clean, he stepped out, informed her she was "wasting water" by taking too long, and went back into the bedroom to dress.

At least, today, she had something to read.

"Did you know the galleon's worth has fallen considerably over the last six weeks?" he asked, not tearing his eyes from the page. "Especially weak when compared to the American dragot."

"No, I did not," she replied. "Did _you_ know that sexual intercourse can help to alleviate pain associated with menstruation?"

He lowered the newspaper.

"How would I know that, Bella? I've never experienced menstrual pain."

"I thought you might find it interesting, my Lord. Forgive me if sharing information pertinent to _me_ is but a burden to _you_."

(They'd been cooped up together in close quarters with little distraction for far too long.)

He sighed and set down the Prophet.

"Are you experiencing the pain of menstruation, Bellatrix?"

"I might be."

"And would you like to engage in sexual intercourse to alleviate it?"

She sent him a withering glare over the top of the magazine. "Well not _now_."

"Very well." He returned to the financial section, though there was little to interest him here. "Do speak up should you change your mind."

Sneering disdainfully, she flipped a few pages ahead, from the article entitled, "Sex on the Cycle" to a quiz asking, "What's Your Sexy Shag Quotient?" She Accioed over her quill and ink well.

 _Q1: Do You Primarily Have Sex:_

 _A) on top of the blankets_

 _B) under the blankets_

 _C) at home but outside the bedroom_

 _D) in public places, covertly_

She glanced at the Dark Lord and circled _A_ , though the truth was, since his return and her escape from Azkaban, _B_ had become more of the norm. (She desperately missed _C_ , though that had never been a regular occurrence, and they'd never tried _D_.)

 _Q2: How Many Times Per Week Would You Like to Have Sex?_

 _A) 0-1_

 _B) 2-3_

 _C) 4-5_

 _D) 6 or more_

Well, that was easy. _D._ No question. After all, it said, "How many times per week WOULD YOU LIKE TO have sex?" not "How many times per week DO YOU have sex?" (in which case the answer would most unfortunately be _A_ ).

 _Q3: Do You Prefer to Be:_

 _A) on top_

 _B) on bottom_

 _C) in front_

 _D) no preference_

She had to think about this one…

By the time she finished marking her response to _Q25,_ the last question ( _What Sort of Talk Do You Prefer in Bed? C, a mix of sweet & dirty_) he had read the entire newspaper front to back, ads included, and came to sit beside her on the bed. He glanced down at the page as she circled each of the things she'd previously thought about from a list of Potential Fantasies – each earned an additional point toward one's overall score. He started to read over her shoulder, beginning from Q1.

Seven questions in, he tutted.

"My Bella. You prefer _receiving_ oral sex to _performing_ it?"

She glanced at him. "Don't you?"

"Yes, but I'm a man. Oral sex is highly beneficial to men. It is but supplemental to you women."

She laughed, knowing he was teasing her. She'd never been shy about her enjoyment of that particular act, and he knew damn well it was more than 'supplemental.' The Dark Lord took the magazine from her hands and skimmed down the page.

"This asks if you've ever fantasized about being watched during sex."

"Yes," she said, going slightly pink.

"You wrote that you have." His eyes flashed dangerously. "Who's watched you?"

She rolled her eyes and reached for the magazine. "No one! I've _fantasized_ about it, that's all."

He held the magazine just out of reach. "And about being with other women? Are you..." He cleared his throat. "Are you _that sort,_ like your mother?"

"What sort?" She asked testily.

"You know what sort! A _lesbian!_ " He spat out the word as if it tasted of sawdust.

Her heavy-lidded eyes narrowed into slits. She did not want to talk about her mother, and she did not appreciate the disdain in which he'd said the word – while Bellatrix wouldn't actually _do_ that, and though knowing about Mrs. Shafiq _had_ bothered her when her mother was alive, she didn't like the thought that there was something _wrong_ with Mummy.

"No sort," she said.

Ignoring her furious pout, he continued down the page.

"You've fantasized about sex in the ocean – highly illogical; I imagine sand would find its way into all the uncomfortably places – and about being with two…" This time, his red eyes widened. " _Two men at once?_ Why? For what purpose? How would that be possible, logistically? And is that not excessive?" His eyes narrowed into slits so thin she couldn't discern his pupils. "Am I not enough for you?"

"My Lord! That is a _woman's_ magazine! It is meant only to be read by _women_." She tried again to steal from him, but his grip was too good. He rolled it up, swatted her thigh with it, and unfurled to read more.

"Well, isn't this interesting? You have fantasized about being choked in bed? About being tied down? What does this acronym stand for? BDSM? This BDSM, you circled it twice… Does this magazine have a glossary of terms?" He flipped to the back, but found only an ad for expensive shampoo.

"It doesn't matter! It doesn't stand for anything. They're only fantasies." She tried yet again to wrestle it from him, but this time he twisted his body, blocking her, and nearly knocked her backwards off the bed. She then attempted to slip herself under his arm, still reaching for it, but he trapped her there, unable to escape, like a potted mandrake. She was losing her patience.

"Give that back! I mean it, my Lord, or I swear to Salazar–"

"Tied down, choked, _that sort_ with women, two men at once… My wanton little minx, I had no idea." He tossed the magazine to the floor, flipped her onto her back, pinned her body under his, and reached for her quill. "When do you have these… fantasies?"

"I was in Azkaban for fourteen years." She avoided his eye. "I had endless hours."

"Endless hours spent… fantasizing? Was that truly the best use of your time?"

(Only _he_ would lecture her about the 'best use of her time' while she was imprisoned. She wished he'd spend more time with their daughter – this was one way in which they were undoubtedly alike. Hermione had told her once she'd have spent the time reciting academic material aloud to avoid letting her mind go to waste.)

"Bella, you haven't answered me. Was that the best use of your-"

"Better than spending it screaming at the walls, clawing at my skin! I was determined not to go mad, and if that meant mentally escaping by-"

He took her quill and drew a line across her throat with the ink. "By fantasizing about being tied down and choked during sex?"

"They're only fantasies. Meaningless."

"Still." He repositioned his body so he was kneeling beside her, quill tip positioned at the center of her throat. "You could have asked me."

"As… asked you?" The anger melted away, replaced by sheer confusion. Her arms slipped to her sides as she stared up at him.

He flicked the quill, and thanks to wandless magic, it became a long silk scarf. He reached for one of her wrists, then the other, binding them together above her head. She allowed him to remove the pillow from behind her head so she was completely flat on her back, and drew a sharp intake of breath as he attached the scarf holding her wrists to the center iron rung of the headboard.

"You prefer receiving oral sex to giving it, Bella?" He slid a finger down the front of her body, and as if his nail had been replaced with a knife, it ripped open the front of that dress from Andromeda, all the way down to her navel.

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered.

"Are you currently experiencing the pain of menstruation?"

"My cycle's not expected until next week, my Lord."

"Hm. Is that so?" He cut lower, severing the dress all the way to its hem, positioned himself between her legs, and jerked apart her thighs. "For how long have you loved me, my Bella?"

She bit her lip, her breath baited, and barely managed a reply.

"Forever, it feels, my Lord. Since I was a girl. I loved you from afar."

"Allow me to rephrase. For how long have you been mine, my Bella?"

"You Summoned me privately for the first time in 1971, my Lord, but we were not together… not fully… until–"

"The seventh of January, 1977." He pressed his nearly non-existent lips to her abdomen, just above her bellybutton, then grasped her hips and jerked down on her body, making her arms stretch tighter. "Twenty years ago."

"And seven months. Nearly eight." She squirmed. It hurt a little, having her arms above her head in this position, but it was not entirely unpleasant. "But I've been yours for over twenty-five years."

"But you want other men? And women?"

"No, my Lord. Only you. Those fantasies... they're _fantasy,_ that's _all."_

"Why?"

Her brow knitted up with bemusement. "Why?"

"Yes. Why? Why fantasize about those things? About a woman or about two men? Or about being watched?"

"I... don't know." She hadn't really thought about the WHY before. "It's the attention, I suppose. I want someone to pay attention to me. To want me. To want to watch me. To want only me. I no longer turn heads the way I used to, my Lord." Her entire upper body felt hot with embarrassment and shame. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling and resisted the urge to tear up. "Everyone wants to be appreciated, desired. Wanted."

"Hm." He drew his tongue across her skin, just above the band of her knickers. "Do you feel under-appreciated, then? Less-than-desired?"

"At times," she admitted, hoping he'd not punish her for this. "I live to serve you, my Lord. I hope you know that."

"I am aware." He bit down hard on the side of her hip, then sucked on the skin around his teeth marks. "I am not the man I was when I first took you to bed all those years ago, Bella. I am much more than a man now, and yet..." This time he nipped her upper thigh. "I do not have the same needs I did then. I have better self-control now. You know that I do not need you."

"I know, my Lord." The disappointment was clear.

"I do not need you." As he had before, he sucked on the skin around the indents from his teeth. "But I want you."

"Still, my Lord?" She could hear the insecurity dripping from her voice, the strong desire to believe him but the lack of ability to fully do so. Prior to Azkaban, she'd thought herself quite attractive, strong, confident, a vast improvement over the homely, unpopular girl she'd been at Hogwarts. But deep inside she was still that little girl, the nine-year-old teased for not having grown into her teeth yet, the fourteen-year-old no boy asked to the Yule Ball, the barely-of-age woman in bed beside a man who labeled her "below average" on their wedding night...

"You are an asset to me, my Bella. Perhaps my greatest asset, my most loyal and capable." He buried his face between her legs and inhaled deeply; his next words were muffled. "My most delectable."

" _Am I_ your greatest asset, my Lord? The way you've treated Snape since your return, I feared he might have usurped me, that you may consider him your most loyal and capable." With a slight smile, she added, "And your most delectable."

He pulled back from her body enough to speak clearly.

"I have no desire to feast on any part of the body of Severus Snape, I assure you."

"That's a relief."

His mouth curled up in the corners. (She tried not to think about the handsome smile he used to have.)

"You're worried I may have placed Severus a step above you? I will confess, he has been of use to me as of late, especially this week."

"If he's right about the plan for Potter."

"I believe he is. But 'tis neither here nor there. You needn't worry about him taking your place entirely, my Bella. Fucking a man has never been one of _my_ fantasies."

She giggled.

"I'll try not to worry, then, my Lord."

"We have other worries at the moment." He moved his mouth back to the band of her knickers, which he took in his teeth and pulled. When he released, the elastic snapped against her skin.

"You're worried about what will happen when they move Potter?"

"Not that." He did it again, pulling farther back this time, which made the snap sting just a smidge. "I worry about you."

Her mouth dropped open. "About me?"

"Indeed, about you. I worry that the girl, and not our cause, has become your primary priority."

"The two are the same, my Lord! I want her to be one of us, to be the girl I'd have raised for you had she not been stolen from me. I truly believe she could be an asset to our side, to you. I love her because she is _yours_." (And _mine_ , Bellatrix didn't add. The truth was, she loved her because she was _theirs_.)

"I believe you."

He kissed her again, this time below the bellybutton, and then again, lower... and again... even lower...

She wriggled and felt warmth spreading down to her belly, between her legs, as her heart fluttered. He was now touching her over the silk fabric, making her desperate for more. She moaned. Could he tell how turned on she was already?

"How did you get pregnant?"

"I stopped taking the potion."

"You didn't tell me you'd stopped." He licked her again, this time up and down between her folds, but still over the silk fabric, which was now wet with both his saliva and her arousal. "Why did you stop?"

"I wanted a baby." She closed her eyes and tried to keep her breathing slow and even. "I wanted _your_ baby. I wanted to be a mother. Andromeda was a mother. Narcissa was going to be a mother. I was jealous."

"You told me you became pregnant by accident."

"Yes."

"And?"

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "And that was a lie."

"You dared lie to Lord Voldemort?"

She whimpered, but from fear or pleasure, neither of them could be certain.

"You lied to me, Bella."

"Only that once, my Lord. And I believe you knew then I was lying."

"Mm." His little noise confirmed it. "I could give you another. When the war is over. One no one could take from you. One we could raise together. A perfect child."

"I want that."

"I think the other is a lost cause."

"No!" She attempted to sit up, but with her wrists together and arms stuck above her head, she could only arch her back. "No, please, my Lord, I'll fix her. I promise."

"You've been promising all year to fix her."

"Please, just a little more… _oh_ …" He was licking her again, this time having moved aside the fabric first, and she found it distracting. "Oh… yes… uh…" She was losing her train of thought. "Just a little more time, my Lord. Sir. Master." He slid his tongue inside her and she gasped, crying out his name – his secret name. " _Tom!_ Tom, yes, oh... _Toh... Oh_ , please, please, give me… more… more… uh…? _ohhh_ …"

"More?" Amused by her... sounds... he pinched the sides of her knickers and drew them slowly down her legs, tossing them aside with the magazine, before prompting her again. "More... what?"

 _"Time!"_

"How much more?" He parted the lips of her pussy with his fingers and leaned forward to suck on her clit, his other hand slipping under her arse.

"I… don't _know_ … how... _much time_... I... _ohh_ … _Tom…_ _please, don't stop._ "

He did not stop.

Nor did he correct her when she used his former name.

He took from her what he wanted, but he took care of her, too.

It was just like the 'old days.' Before his fall. Before her imprisonment.

Before he came back as something both more and less than a man.

When he was through taking her over the edge with his tongue, he fucked her, hard and fast, all the while panting in her ear, digging his fingertips into her thighs. She orgasmed for a second time just seconds before he pulled out. He finished on her abdomen, then left her tied up and sticky and sated while he stepped into the loo for a shower. When he returned to the bedroom he was pleasantly surprised to see that she'd not untied herself, even though he was sure she could have used wandless magic to do so. He freed her, cleaned her body with his own wand, and drew the blanket up over them both. He let her rest her head on his chest and wrap an arm around his waist, and he even scratched lightly between her shoulder blades.

This, too, was just like the old days. Before his fall. Before her imprisonment.

Before they learned that their only child had, in fact, survived.

"Please, my Lord," said Bellatrix quietly. "Just a little more time."

"A little more time," he conceded. "I can see progress. And she is undeniably brilliant. Talented. So very much like her mother." He kissed her cheek. "But one more outburst and I'll have no other choice, Bella. She'll give me no choice. You know that."

"I know." She squeezed her eyes closed. She didn't even want to imagine the pain of losing her daughter again, for while the girl wasn't all she'd hoped for during her pregnancy, she was hers. _Theirs_. And she loved her dearly.

She wanted him to love her too.

Somehow.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **25 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Hermione flipped quietly through the Daily Prophet, section to section. Across her cell, Severus sat in the desk chair, reading a Dickens novel, Great Expectations, which he'd selected off her shelf. It had been a gift from Aunt Narcissa, from whom Hermione had begged for new books.

"This one was Andromeda's as a girl," Narcissa had explained. "She was always sneaking Muggle literature into the house, hiding it inside hollow books with more respectable titles in her bedroom. She left this one behind when she ran off."

This suited Hermione well, as she wanted Muggle fiction in particular, definitely not anything to be found in the Malfoy family library. But she read it too quickly and needed more.

Sick of hearing her whine, the woman had sent Draco down to "babysit" her, and apparated to the nearest town, where she raided the Classic Lit section of the used bookstore. She'd come back with twenty thick dusty novels, and Hermione was already flying through them… but she started every morning with the newspaper, after breakfast.

"This Miss Havisham's batty," said Severus, so quietly it may have been to himself, as he turned a page. "You lost the love of your life. Fine. It happens. Move on." He sneered. _"Women."_

Hermione hid a snicker. She reached the financial section.

"Hm. Professor, did you know that the worth of the galleon is falling? Has been for weeks. But the American dragot is stronger than ever."

"Fascinating." He sounded anything but fascinated; she wasn't even sure he'd actually heard her. He tutted at the book. "Cake still on the table."

Over the last four days, Severus had taken to spending as much time in this cell with Hermione as possible, and often accompanied her around the Manor, too. With Rodolphus skulking around in Bella and the Dark Lord's absence, Narcissa and Severus had agreed it wasn't safe to leave the girl alone, unprotected, for any period of time. The Malfoys and Snape took turns minding her, which made her feel like a baby in need of a nanny, though she was getting on better with Draco these days. She hated it most when Lucius was left in command. He was never inappropriate with her, not in the slightest, but he wouldn't communicate with her beyond a polite greeting and goodbye either. He sat and read the newspaper, the European Wizards Financial Journal, or Modern Numerology Magazine, silently sipping tea and pretending she didn't exist. She'd rather be alone and in danger than cooped up with him.

She wasn't even on her own in sleep. For the first two nights Severus dozed off with his head on her desk, drooling just a little onto the wood, wand in hand just in case. For the last two nights, Narcissa had shared her bed, wand up her sleeve, occasionally sniffling in her sleep. Those two nights were harder. Hermione was tempted, so very tempted, to slip that wand right out of her aunt's sleeve and let herself free from this prison, but every time she leaned close to her, envisioning doing so, another vision would force its way into her head.

It was the vision of her aunt being tortured by the Dark Lord for having let her escape, tortured the same way he'd done to her mother.

This was followed by a vision of her aunt sobbing on the floor, being held down by Black and Longbottom.

The woman had been through enough pain through two wars already. She didn't need more – and certainly not as punishment for Hermione's actions.

So Hermione closed her eyes, and slept, and wondered whether the next day would bring more of the same.

"Who's staying with me tonight?" asked Hermione. "You, or my aunt?"

Severus tore his eyes from the book. "Excuse me?"

"Tonight. Are you staying with me, or is Aunt Narcissa?"

"Likely me." He sighed. "She strongly prefers being in bed with her husband. No offense to you, of course. But she says you kick in your sleep."

"I do not kick in my sleep!"

"And you snore."

"I don't snore!"

"And drool. The pillows get so wet, it's like waking up in a lake. She nearly drowned last night."

"You're the one who drools!" Hermione hopped up from her place on the bed. She stomped her foot and pointed at a nonexistent mark in the wood of her desk. "You're leaving a saliva stain! I may need to put a bloody coaster under you at night!"

When he couldn't hold back his chuckle any longer, she realized he was teasing her.

"You are overwhelmingly immature for your age," she snapped, plopping back down on the bed, her face screwed up into a look of annoyance.

"You don't know how old I am."

"I know you're older than twelve, though you don't act it."

He smirked. "But _you_ act it? Pouting and throwing a little tantrum because you've been accused of snoring. Overtired, Miss Black? Is it time for your nap? Shall I fetch you a bottle of warm milk and a-"

"Sod off."

He chuckled again and returned to the book.

She picked up the newspaper, but there was little left to read. Her eyes wandered across the room to her recently expanded (by magic, of course) bookshelf. Oliver Twist, Little Women, Of Human Bondage, Murder on the Orient Express, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Mrs. Dalloway, Jane Eyre, A Christmas Carol, Wuthering Heights… What should she dive into next?

"Murder on the Orient Express," he said, not looking up from the page. "I can hear what you're thinking. Apparently your Occlumency training has gone by the wayside. Read the Agatha Christie mystery. It's about getting away with murder. Perhaps you'll learn something."

"Do you suppose I need to know much about getting away with murder?" Her heart ached as she thought of that poor elderly house-elf whose life she'd ended less than a month ago, the second to die since she arrived at Malfoy Manor.

"We can learn something from every book we read, Miss Black. For example, from this, I'm learning that it's pathetic to spend one's entire life pining for a lost love who never loved you." He slipped a rose petal – his bookmark – between two pages and shook his head. "Not that it's a lesson I needed to learn, but it's a lesson all the same."

"Have you ever been in love, sir?"

"Have you ever gotten away with murder, Miss Black?"

"Why must you deflect when I ask personal questions?"

"Why must you ask personal questions?"

She huffed. "Fine. Sit in silence, then. Like Malfoy. Pretend I don't exist, and I'll not bother you anymore." She reached across the desk and grabbed Great Expectations. "I'll read quietly."

"I was reading that."

"Too bad. It's mine."

"You're acting like a child."

"I feel like a child!" She threw the book down toward the end of the bed, earning the stink-eye from Crookshanks, who was trying to sleep. "I had no freedom before, and that was terrible enough. Now I have no freedom _and_ no privacy."

His lip curled up. "And for what do you need privacy?"

She glared back with equal annoyance. "I don't know. For anything! Everything! What business is it of yours? I might want to stand here on my bed, naked, and sing 'Kiss From a Rose' at the top of my voice into a hairbrush!"

He folded his arms and leaned back on the chair, rocking it onto the two back legs.

"Be my guest."

Cookshanks picked up his orange head and mewed, almost as if in agreement. Severus smiled.

"Traitor," Hermione whispered sharply at the cat.

"I understand how difficult it must be," said Severus sympathetically. "Let me help you."

He stood, stretched, and pulled out his wand. "Accio hairbrush!"

The handle smacked against his outstretched palm. He tossed the brush down on the bed beside Hermione.

"Are you going to be _fully_ naked, or leave on your unmentionables?"

"You're not funny," said Hermione, but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"If your mother returns to find you naked, standing on the bed, and singing to me, the odds are good I'll be dead before I can offer an explanation. Surely that thought must cheer you. Though I imagine you'll miss having someone to correct your homework. I'd suggest Draco, but…"

"Stop." Her little smile was growing, as much as she wanted to stop it from doing so.

"I don't know this 'Kiss From a Rose,' or I'd offer to harmonize. Could we sing something else? Do you know, 'Rocky Raccoon' by the Beatles? My mother was a fan, mostly because my father hated them. I also know, 'Come Together,' 'I Am the Walrus,' and 'Eleanor Rigby.'"

"I don't know Rocky Raccoon." A tug in her chest reminded her that her father and mother had been Beatles fans too, but she pushed the feeling away, along with the memory of them singing 'Here Comes the Sun' while each holding one of her toddler hands, on their way to the park after the rain stopped.

"In that case, allow me to enlighten you. It's more a story than a song. Sit back. No need to be naked for this part. I hope you don't mind if I keep my clothes on as well. Though it's July, it is a bit cool down here."

She giggled despite her desire to be angry and settled herself against the wall with a pillow behind her back, her legs crisscrossed.

"Will you be needing the hairbrush, Professor?"

"Not this time."

He folded his hands and placed them on the desk, leaned forward, and spoke the song to her as if giving a lesson.

 _"Now, somewhere in the Black Mountain Hills of Dakota, there lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon."_

His silky, low-timbered voice was soothing, and soon she found herself both feeling better and immersed in the story of a character she pictured as a short raccoon wearing American cowboy boots with a red gingham handkerchief tied around his neck. Maybe one of those ten gallon hats. With a silver pistol holstered on his hip, the way her mother wore her knife.

 _"One day his woman ran off with another guy. Hit young Rocky in the eye. Rocky didn't like that. He said, 'I'm gonna get that boy.'"_

"Ridiculous!" said Hermione. "If she left, _obviously_ she did not want to be with him."

"Obviously."

"And which one hit him in the eye? The girl raccoon, or the other male?"

"They're not raccoons," said Severus, though truthfully as a child he'd always pictured anthropomorphic animals acting out the scenes of the song, too.

"Of course they are," said Hermione. "Go on."

Severus continued. Hermione tried not interrupt again, though she did gasp when Rocky got shot during the showdown, but then…

 _"The Healer came in, stinking of gin, and proceeded to lie on the table."_

"Healer?" She sat up straighter. "Muggles don't have Healers. Neither do raccoons."

"I believe it was a doctor in the original, but my mother always sang 'Healer.'" He shrugged. "Would you like to hear the conclusion or discuss semantics?"

She relaxed against the pillow. "The conclusion, please."

 _"He said, 'Rocky, you've met your match!' Rocky said, 'Healer, it's only a scratch…"_

Hermione managed to hold her tongue through the end, when 'Gideon' of the bible was to help with good Rocky's 'revival.'

"He died, then, didn't he?" asked Hermione. "Oh, that poor sweet sad raccoon."

Severus nodded. "I always related to the raccoon, too. All he wanted was the return of his lady love, but that arsehole killed him."

"No." Hermione turned her body to face him, her expression one of complete seriousness, almost scolding. "No! Though I pity him, the fact is, Rocky Raccoon _should have_ accepted that she left and moved on with his life. But he didn't. His death was his own fault Rocky was… Rocky was a bit like Miss Havisham, don't you think? Couldn't let go. I feel sorry for him, I do, but I'm glad he was not able to win his furry little girlfriend back using violence. He should have taken no for an answer. Rocky: 'Do you want to be with me?' Magill, who called herself Lil, but everyone knew as Nancy: 'No, thank you. I'm with another raccoon now.' Rocky: 'Very well then, goodbye.' _That's_ how it should have gone. And everyone would be alive in the end."

"I always imagined her a cat, perhaps a Persian," confessed Severus. "And her murderous new boyfriend, a skunk. His friends include a wolf, a dog, and a rat."

"Oh, no, that's incorrect," said Hermione matter-of-factly, tossing back her hair and looking very much like her mother in the moment. She seemed to miss – or perhaps ignore – the 'friends' comment. "They're _all_ raccoons, even the Healer. The story doesn't make sense otherwise."

"Doesn't make sense?" He chortled. "They're Dakota Mountain woodland creatures with weapons and saloons. They don't have to make sense."

"I'm positive they're all raccoons, sir."

He certainly wasn't about to argue over it, even though she was 100% wrong.

An hour later, when Draco and Narcissa came down to relieve Severus, it was to find the pair singing.

 _"Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright..."_

"I had no idea you were so talented," teased Narcissa, smiling at Severus.

"It's nothing." He scowled, clearly quite unhappy to have been overheard.

"Mother said you can come upstairs for a while," said Draco. "Father, Uncle Rodolphus, and Rabastan have gone out. Father said he would said word before they return home."

"I thought you might want to swim," added Narcissa. "Stretch your legs. See the sun."

"It's not really the sun." Hermione was at once disheartened and eager. She would indeed love to see the sun, but a facsimile of it created by the enchanted ceiling of the indoor pool room would have to do. It was certainly better than being confined to her cell. "Am I allowed to be alone while I change into my bathing costume?"

"Yes!" said Draco, looking disgusting at the mere thought of her undressing in front of them. Though he no longer hated her as he once did, he had no desire to see her in any state of undress, and not only because she was his cousin.

"Severus and Draco will go upstairs. I'll turn my back. Is that sufficient?"

Hermione nodded. What choice did she have?

She was happy to be heading back to the pool for the first time since the Dark Lord had put her on punishment nearly a month ago, but at the same time, she felt sorry to see Severus leave.

That had been one of their best mornings spent together.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **25 July, 1997**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

"Born as the seventh month dies… Born as the seventh month dies…"

Lord Voldemort scoured the Daily Prophet, seeking birth announcements. Both Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom were due any day now, and either of them could be the mother of the baby born with the ability to "vanquish the Dark Lord." As he'd told Bella, he was leaning toward Potter, had been since Severus Snape shared with him what he heard of the Prophecy, but he wanted to keep an eye on the Longbottom situation as well. After all, both couples had defied him three times. Both had proven to be a bother already. And both had babies due as the seventh month dies…

But only one would be the progeny of a Muggleborn mother and a pureblood father.

Only one would be the baby foretold of in the Prophecy.

"Alright, my Lord?" Bellatrix, who had become his constant companion since he broke her free from imprisonment shortly after the birth of their daughter, was seated not far from him in the parlor at 12, Grimmauld Place, doing a bit of light reading of her own – some rubbish new magazine called The Quibbler. She was holding it upside down for Merlin-Only-Knows what reason, and was squinting at the page with her head cocked to one side, looking quite ridiculous.

"What did you think of Professor Trelawney?" he asked. He'd asked her this before. Many times. Her answer was always the same.

"I think she's a barmy old bat and a complete fraud." Bellatrix put her face closer to the page, nearly touching it with her nose. "Oh, Aihwaz! I'd forgotten that one."

"You went to her for a reading? And took her class?"

"Unfortunately. You know that. The reading was a waste of money and the class an even bigger waste of time."

"She started at Hogwarts your third year?"

"Fourth. I signed up for Divination because I thought it would be an easy way of earning another O.W.L. I wasn't keen on Muggle Studies, as you surely understand, nor did I want to continue with Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Kettleburn was missing several fingers. I was intent upon keeping all of mine."

"You believe her to be a fraud, but never witnessed her making an actual prophecy, did you?"

"I did not. I never witnessed her making anything more or less than a fool of herself. You know this. We've had this conversation before." She lowered the paper. "Why? Not contemplating recruiting a Seer to our side, are you?"

"No, no, nothing like that," he said dismissively, though the truth was, he wouldn't mind having a Seer on hand. "Just something Severus Snape said some time ago. He overheard a meeting during which it appeared Dumbledore was attempting to fire her, but changed his mind."

"Severus Snape." She sneered, knowing he was referring to this 'prophecy' the young man claimed to have overheard. "I don't trust that wormy little cretin. His mother was married to a Muggle for-"

"I am aware of the situation with his parents." The Dark Lord had had quite enough of her complaining about Snape over the last couple of years. He was in no mood for more. He glanced back down at the Births, Deaths, and Marriages page of the Prophet.

 _TWIN GIRLS, to Jishnu and Abida (Madhu) Patel, on 23 July, 1980_

 _GIRL, to Horace and Helene (Bardot) Greengrass, on 23 July, 1980_

 _BOY, to Michael and Mary (Tuttle) Corner, on 24 July, 1980_

But that was all.

Twin girls born to a pureblood couple with whom he'd never interacted. A singular girl to a pureblood couple he had working diligently for him behind the scenes at the Ministry for Magic. And a boy born to two filthy Muggleborns who were likely too terrified of the Dark Lord to ever even _think_ about defying him.

No, the baby in question had to be either that of Frank and Alice Longbottom, purebloods, Order of the Phoenix founding members, who fought against him and his Death Eaters on numerous occasions, or of James and Lily Potter…

Lily Potter.

The mother of the child mentioned in the Prophecy was Lily Potter.

He was sure of it.

"You're awfully quiet this morning, my Lord." Bellatrix had set down her magazine and was regarding him with concern. "Have you got a headache? I could massage your temples…"

He'd been getting headaches as of late, ever since he created that last Horcrux and placed a piece of his split soul inside a locket, the locket he'd entrusted that house-elf to help him hide. Every Horcrux had stolen something from him, and this one seemed to have both hardened his heart – even more so than it had been since early childhood – and caused a reoccurring throb behind his eyes. Or perhaps it was the one before, the diadem, that caused the headaches. Who could remember?

He wasn't the type to need – or even want – a woman around, but he couldn't deny that he was less discontented when she was nearby, so when he came to stay temporarily at the home of the Blacks, he demanded she join him. And it had worked out, mostly, especially in moments like this.

"Yes," he said, rising to move to the couch. She did the same. He lay on his back, head in her lap, eyes closed, and allowed her to work.

"You're stressed," she said, two fingers rubbing circles on each of his temples. "You want us to find the Potters and Longbottoms. I know. We will. I promise."

"There is always so much to do, my Bella."

"I know, my Lord. I know. But you rest now. Let me worry about all there is to do."

He half-smiled, eyes still closed, enjoying the pressure she was putting on his forehead.

"Bellatrix, what would I do without you?"

In no time at all, he was feeling better. So much better, he fell asleep.

But as he slept, he dreamt. And his dreams turned to nightmares.

 _"Born as the seventh month dies…"_

 **-0-0-0-**

 **26 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

It was mid-afternoon when the Dark Lord told Bellatrix they would be returning to Malfoy Manor.

"A gift, of sorts, awaits," he explained.

He did not expound on it.

The first thing she did upon re-entering the Manor was kiss her sister on the cheek. The second thing she did was rush down to the cellar to check on Hermione.

She found the girl playing wizard's chess with Draco.

"Has it been awful without me?" she asked.

"Yes!" said Hermione emphatically, leaping up from her seat and rushing to the bars. She embraced her mother the moment the woman stepped into the cell. "Rodolphus and his brother have returned, and-"

"Returned where, here?"

"Yes! They've been-"

"You've been here with them?" Concern and fury flickered simultaneously across her face. "Have they seen you? Touched you? Hurt you?"

"Seen me, yes, not touched me, but only because-"

Relief took the place of worry. Bellatrix's mouth relaxed into a smile. "I've missed you terribly. Draco, run upstairs. The Dark Lord would like all of us seated around the table in the dining room post-haste." She swept her hands out, a gesture for him to leave. "Go on, now. Don't tarry."

"Am I to go too, Mother?" asked Hermione, watching jealously as her cousin disappeared around the corner toward the stairs.

"Not this time, my love." Bellatrix hugged her again. "Your hair smells of pool water. Have you been swimming?"

"Please don't tell the Dark Lord," Hermione whispered. "Auntie has been letting me leave for short periods, but never by myself, always under her eye or that of Professor Snape or Lucius."

"Lucius has returned too? He knows about you, then? Was he surprised? Upset?"

"Surprised, yes. Upset? I don't think so. He's indifferent toward me. But Mother, we have to talk about-"

"I have to go, then. The Dark Lord does not enjoy being kept waiting. But my girl…" Bellatrix gave her a quick, tight hug. "He and I had a lot of time to talk while on the run, and he deeply regrets the way he behaved after your little outburst. He understands your frustrations, and he was sorry for hurting you. For hurting both of us. He said he's never been so profoundly sorry."

This wasn't quite true. He's said he regretted the fact that he lost his temper when the girl had acted out, but, as per his usual, he did not actually apologize for his actions. Still, Bellatrix needed Hermione to believe her father was no monster.

"He wants to start anew with you. Educate you. Develop a relationship with you. He does not want his only child to fear or loathe him. He's been under considerable strain, you understand, and if he'd been in his right mind he never would have hurt us like that. We pushed him to it, but he shouldn't have let us. He lost control. It won't happen again."

(Bellatrix did not know it, but she reminded Hermione greatly of Severus Snape's mother in this moment. He'd said his mother always apologized on his father's behalf, blame herself for his violence, and promise never again.)

"Alright, Mother," said Hermione somewhat woodenly. Crookshanks wrapped himself around her feet and mewed. Perhaps he was hoping Bellatrix had returned to the cellar with gifts, as she'd occasionally come down with leftover chicken or fish for him.

"We'll have dinner together, tonight, upstairs. You, me, the Dark Lord, your aunt and uncle, your cousin."

"Your husband?"

"Ex-husband," Bellatrix corrected her without thinking, then cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. "It was never much of a marriage. I have to go now. Stay here. I'll return as soon as I'm able."

Dejectedly, Hermione nodded. "Yes, Mother."

Upstairs in the dining room of her sister's home, Bellatrix took her place around the table. She sat to the right of the Dark Lord, with her sister to her other side. Next to Narcissa were Lucius, Draco, and Dolohov, then two empty chairs, followed by Rodolphus, and Rabastan. She sent a dirty look in the direction of the man she'd married before flashing a quick, small smile at her lover, who ignored her.

On the other side of the table, to the Dark Lord's left, was another empty chair. On down the line were Rowle, Avery, Nott, Macnair, Crabbe, Goyle, Alecto, and Amycus. Standing nearby was that creep, Pettigrew.

She hadn't realized the Dark Lord had intended to summon so many of them here today.

It was when Evangeline Chaucer arrived, the reason for this little gathering became clear. Hovering behind her, suspended in midair thanks to a floating charm, was a dowdy, plain blonde woman Bellatrix did not recognize. It was clear the woman had seen better days. Her hair was matted and dirty, her clothes rumpled, and there were several cuts on her hands and face. She was staring up at the ceiling, but with a twitch of the woman's hand, the blonde's head snapped back, and she was staring straight at them.

"The guest of honor," hissed the Dark Lord. "Leave her there for now. We have not yet all arrived. Wormtail, watch over our friend."

Evangeline smiled, nodding slightly. She was a silver-haired woman, not much older than Bellatrix, one of the Dark Lord's staunchest supporters during the first war. She'd been accused of terrible crimes and gone underground for years. Some say she returned to Germany, where her maternal grandmother was born. Other said she'd fled to northern Africa, to wait until he'd return to rise again.

Her husband had not managed to escape with her. He died in Azkaban.

Bellatrix was not thrilled to see her here.

Evangeline had always been far too fond of the Dark Lord for Bella's taste.

She took the seat beside Rodolphus, and Bellatrix couldn't help noticing the way she brushed her fingertips over the back of his hand as she did so.

That slag. That cow.

 _Fine, though,_ thought Bella. She'd rather have Rodolphus fixated on Evangeline than her daughter, and she'd rather Evangeline be flirting with Rodolphus than with the Dark Lord.

Bellatrix was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she almost didn't notice when the last two guests arrived: Yaxley and Snape.

The Dark Lord commented on their near-tardiness, before instructing Yaxley to sit beside Dolohov and allowing Snape the chair next to him. Bellatrix pouted. He was giving that man far too much power, too much clout, too much trust. It was a mistake, of that she was sure. She didn't trust him when he joined the Death Eaters, she didn't trust him when she learned he was working at Hogwarts, she didn't trust him when he made the Unbreakable Vow with her sister, and she didn't trust him now.

(And she certainly didn't trust him alone with her daughter, but she had little choice there.)

"Lucius, I require your wand," said the Dark Lord. Lucius, the giant baby he was, hemmed and stammered before Narcissa placed a hand on his wrist, then he handed it over to their mutual master, who snapped off the ridiculous snake's head attachment.

Bella watched with baited breath as the Dark Lord then moved the rotating, hovering blonde woman toward him so she was floating directly over the table. He swished the wand slightly and she awoke. Her eyes landed on Severus – her head was still bent back in that unnatural way – and she looked as though she'd be starting to cry any second.

Bellatrix quickly learned she was the Hogwarts Muggle Studies professor.

"She'd have us _mate_ with them," said the Dark Lord.

Alecto giggled and wheezed. Rodolphus growled. Several Death Eaters booed or hissed.

Bellatrix spat on the floor.

(Narcissa pinched her thigh under the table as punishment. Cissy and Andromeda were alike in this way.)

The professor sounded desperate, pathetic, as she spoke her last words.

"Severus, please, we're friends!"

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Her body hit the table. The snake slithered toward her.

Even Bella had difficulty stomaching what happened next.


	23. MISSION

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:**

 **MISSION**

 **26 July, 1980**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

Narcissa sat in the playroom rocker, nursing Draco, who was less than two months old, while Diana, less than a month from age one, sat on the floor playing with large wooden alphabet blocks. She stuck the corner of one in her mouth – this one had a D on it – and Narcissa commended her.

"That's right! D for Diana! You brilliant girl!"

"Mik?" asked Diana, dropping the block and looking up at her mother. She meant 'milk.' She was still nursing, but far less now that she was also eating dry crackers and pureed vegetables and assorted fruits.

"Not now. It's _Draco's_ turn for milk," said Narcissa.

"Bay-bee?" asked Diana.

Narcissa nodded. "Yes, baby. Baby Draco is having milk. Diana is a big girl. She eats biscuits."

"Bih-kih?" asked Diana, reaching out a pudgy hand, opening and closing her fist.

"Well, no, no biscuits right now. Right now, playtime. Play with your blocks, Diana."

"Pay box," said Diana. She picked up the D block. She was a smart, attentive child, a late walker but an early talker, and very much in love with her Mumma, Dada, and bay-bee brother.

"Yes, play blocks," said Narcissa. "Play with alphabet blocks. D, for Diana." She was about to ask Diana to touch another block, the A perhaps, to see if she might recognize the letter, but just then the door flew open and in swept Bellatrix, looking worse for wear.

"What happened to you?" asked Narcissa. She pointed behind her sister. "Close the door. She's quick these days."

"What happened to me? I'll tell you! The Dark Lord is adamant we find the Potters and the Longbottoms before either of their bitch wives go into labor, for reasons unknown, and I've been out searching. It's raining and I was confined to this Muggle hovel and that, so I couldn't use an Impervius charm, and I'm soaked."

"Why didn't you use a drying charm when you got home?" Narcissa's gaze shot down to the floor. "You're dripping water and mud. Mud!"

"Muh!" Diana tried to echo. She crawled over to her aunt and touched the muddy tip of her shoe. "Muh. Muh!" She stuck her fingers in her mouth.

"Yes, Auntie is dripping mud all over the floor. Bella, give her to me. I don't want her eating dirt."

Narcissa unlatched newborn Draco and brought his head up to her shoulder to burp him. Bellatrix lifted Diana, holding her at a distance to avoid getting her wet, and sat her down on Narcissa's knee. (Though she wouldn't tell her sister so, as she was too jealous given her the loss of her own child, she was in awe of how the woman managed to juggle two at once.)

"When I returned unsuccessful, the Dark Lord confiscated my wand! He said I can have it back when I show him I'm worthy of one, that bastard. If he wants to find them so badly, let _him_ spend hours out in the rain!"

"Don't say 'bastard,'" Narcissa scolded. "Diana is starting to repeat things."

Bellatrix gave an exaggerated eye-roll, plucked Narcissa's new wand from her braid, and cleaned herself up. She replaced it, took Diana from her sister, and paced back and forth, lightly bouncing the little girl as she ranted.

"He doesn't tell me he loves me, Cissy. Would it be so bloody difficult to show a bit of affection now and again? He used to find me desirable. There was a time when he couldn't keep his hands off me. When we spent all night in bed but didn't sleep at all. Now, I can't remember the last time he sucked-"

"Unless that sentence ends with, 'a lemon,' I don't wish to hear it."

"He's become obsessed with finding the Potters. He wants the Longbottoms too, he says, but he's almost entirely fixated on the Potters, specifically the woman. I don't know why he cares, what's so special about them. Millions of women pop out mongrels every year. What makes Potter's little mutt something special?"

"I don't want to talk about the Potters," said Narcissa. "Not the Longbottoms, either. Please change the subject."

Bellatrix ignored her, or perhaps she didn't hear.

"'Have you found me the Potters?' he asks, night after night, and when I say no, he's sullen and angry and we go to bed without touching. 'Have you found me the Potters? Have you found them yet? Where are the Potters? I need the Potters!' How in the hell should I know where they are? I'm trying! They've got Dumbledore hiding them. Dumbledore and his Order."

"I asked you to please change the subject."

"Potter this and Potter that, Potter, Potter, Pott-"

"I said change the fucking subject, Bellatrix!"

Narcissa's sharp tone and rarely used expletive startled her sister.

"I'm sorry," Bella said softly, though (at the time) she did not know why mention of the Potters bothered Cissy so. Bellatrix knelt on the floor by Diana's toys, placed the girl in front of her, and started stacking wooden alphabet blocks. "What's wrong?"

"I'm tired, that's all," said Narcissa. "Nothing more."

Bella was sure this was a lie.

But she changed the subject.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **27 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

"The girl has grown close to you. I could sense it at dinner last night."

The Dark Lord and Bellatrix were in the shower. He was standing behind her, working rosewater shampoo through her hair, and she was flying – emotionally – because it had been nearly two decades since he last did this.

"She says she loves me," Bellatrix said delicately. She closed her eyes, enjoying the way he scratched at her scalp. "I think we can fix her, my Lord, I do! I know it's been over a year, I know it hasn't gone the way we'd hoped, but I think–"

"I have handled the entire situation poorly," he said. "Forgive me. I know little of children and even less of teenage girls. I never had a father – nor a mother – and was ill-prepared to _be_ a father, especially to start at this late stage. I am profoundly apologetic."

She stifled a gasp. Was this really an apology? A real and true apology? She couldn't remember if he'd ever given her one before, not like this. Had she turned, she might have recognized the manipulation in his expression, might have realized he was influencing her in exactly the way he intended to do their daughter, but alas… she did not turn. And he did not let on.

"She loves you because you have been a mother to her these thirteen months. You have taught and protected her, and shown her affection. I have tried, on occasion, to do the same, but most of what she has seen of me as been anger and violence. As a result she views me the way Severus did his father, and not the way you do yours."

"I love my father," she said, and a twinge of guilt nipped at her because she hadn't been to see him in weeks. Months, maybe.

"We want the best for those we love, don't we, Bella?" He leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. She practically purred.

"Yes, my Lord."

"We want to keep them safe, to see them succeed."

"Yes, my Lord, precisely."

"I should want that for our Hermione." He turned her body so they were facing each other and tipped her head back to rinse the shampoo.

(Her heart positively fluttered at "our" Hermione.)

"I shall speak with her today. I do not want her to fear me, but to respect me. I will resume tutelage of her, and reconsider returning her wand. But she has to show me she can be trusted with it."

"How should she show you, my Lord." Bellatrix opened her eyes, which bore into his. "Please, don't make her murder again. She still feels guilty about that house-elf. And Narcissa says she can't afford to lose another one. Dobby was freed, Sudsy died, Tinker was murdered, she only has three left."

"I will not be requiring another house-elf from your sister, nor will I demand Hermione commit another murder. That memory you showed her, the one in which Black, Potter, and Longbottom attacked your sister, that did more to turn her away from their side than anything I could have done, and to know that Dumbledore wanted her dead…"

"I wish you'd assigned that task to me instead of Draco."

"Hush." He tapped her nose with his index finger. "I think there is another memory we could show her, Bella."

"Another memory?"

"One of yours, perhaps."

Bellatrix's eyes went wide, her pulse quickened, and she began scratching at her upper chest.

"One of mine?"

"I believe you know which one." He smiled. "I'll have a conversation with the girl during lunch, after which you'll share with her that memory. And then, tomorrow… she'll be with us when we capture Potter."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **27 July, 1980**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

She was again searching for the Potters when she was captured. She was furious, and told them she'd be damned before she let them take her back to Azkaban.

"Don't worry," said one of them. He was masked, but his voice sounded vaguely familiar. "You're not going back to Azkaban. Yet."

By the time Dumbledore showed up, she was bruised and battered and bleeding, but they hadn't violated her – though they made it clear they wanted to. They assured her they eventually would. But, for now, they'd tortured her instead. Enjoyed it. Six on one. Using magic and Muggle means. Laughing while she writhed with pain.

The Dark Lord arrived mere moments after old Albus. He'd brought with him a dozen Death Eaters, outnumbering the six Order members who'd abducted her.

She managed to wrestle her wand back from one of them. His mask fell off.

"Regulus?" she asked. He looked so much like his brother. But no, it didn't make sense. Regulus was on their side, he'd fought valiantly for them until his death. "You're alive?"

Before he could answer, a flash of green light hit him square in the chest, sent by a member of the Order.

"You killed one of you own," she said, staring down at the lifeless body of her youngest cousin, barely a man, and thought to have been killed a year before. Apparently, he'd defected instead, and now paid the ultimately price, but at whose hand? She didn't know whether to cackle or cry. She felt confused and faint… the blood loss… and she'd been hit in the head… cursed repeatedly.

"He wasn't one of ours," said the man who'd sent it. He ripped off his mask and sneered at her. "Not really."

She gasped. Whoever she'd expected to see under that mask, it wasn't the twenty-year-old standing before her.

"Sirius! What are-"

But then the Dark Lord grabbed her around the waist, sent one last Killing Curse in Dumbledore's direction, and disapparated.

That was the last she saw of her cousin… until they dragged him into Azkaban.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **28 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Bellatrix wasn't sure the Dark Lord's plan was a good one. Though Hermione had been sufficiently traumatized by the latest memory she'd been forced to view, and though she'd seemed intrigued by the Dark Lord's renewed promise to educate her and his seemingly heartfelt apology, to give her a wand and take her on another mission – especially one of so much importance, where the victim would not be a man who wanted her dead, but the boy she'd closely befriended – it seemed like a terrible idea.

She didn't want to show Hermione that memory.

She didn't want to take her on this mission.

She, however, did not have a say.

And so, last night, she showed her via Penseive. They watched it together, as they had the others. Hermione held her hand while they watched her being cursed and hexed and beaten, and Bellatrix winced multiple times, and, afterward, they both cried.

Today, they would be capturing Harry Potter.

Bellatrix chose an outfit for Hermione, handed her back her wand, and gave her the same instructions she'd been giving her all damn day, just in case.

"The Dark Lord's goal is to capture Harry Potter," Bellatrix explained for the thousandth time. "Mine is to keep you safe."

"Is Draco coming?" asked Hermione, delicately looking over her wand as if expecting to find a nick in the wood or a chip in the handle.

"Not tonight," said Bellatrix. "The Dark Lord cannot entrust him with a mission of this magnitude."

"But he trusts me?"

"He wants you to show him you're worthy of his trust." They'd discussed this all before, several times, but Hermione seemed to need to hear it again. "He wasn't this way – the way he is now – during the first war. Being nearly destroyed and brought back in such an unorthodox way took a terrible toll on him, and now that he is more used to his form, more used to his reality, he realizes what he's been like for the past two years, and he regrets it. Hermione I've told you about the way he was, the way he hated men like… like Snape's father, like my cousin Sirius. Those who beat and rape and abuse women. He wouldn't stand for that, then. And he's sickened to see what he's become, and he promises never again."

She was laying it on a bit thick, embellishing considerably _yet again,_ but unlike the last time, Hermione was nodding thoughtfully and taking it in, which seemed a good sign.

"When he learned my husband had hurt me, he summoned him and spoke to him, and kept me safe. He let Antonin Dolohov go to Azkaban for the crime of beating his wife. And Muggle men – Muggle men have a penchant for it, it's second nature to so many of them, especially when their wives are witches. They're jealous, jealous like Snape's father, because they know they have no power, so they assert themselves with aggression, with violence. Did Snape tell you how his father tried to beat the magic right out of his mother? Did he tell you?"

"He told me," Hermione said softly. She brought her wand up to her cheek. She didn't feel complete without it, and hoped, this time, it wouldn't be taken from her again.

"This wasn't supposed to happen until the thirtieth," said Bellatrix as she corralled Hermione's thick hair into a ponytail to keep it clear from her face. "But Snape assures us they plan to move him early. I hope he's right."

"Will the Dark Lord kill him? Harry?"

She sounded scared.

"No, no, nothing like that," said Bellatrix, though the truth was, though Death Eaters had been instructed not to kill him, she couldn't promise the Dark Lord wouldn't if given the chance. "But they may be trying to kill us to keep him safe, and we may need to kill in response. I hope it won't come to that, but I also hope you know I'd gladly kill for you. Without a second thought." She kissed Hermione on the cheek. "I'm going to return here tonight alive, as are you and the Dark Lord. I don't give a skrewt's blast end what happens to anyone else."

"What about Professor Snape? We can't let him die!"

Bellatrix fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Alright, we'll make certain he returns safely too. You can help with that. You'll be on the back of my broom, holding on to me. You can be my extra eyes and ears, and tell me if anyone's targeting Snape, alright? And I'll keep the enemy at bay."

"Alright," said Hermione, but she still looked uneasy.

Once they were airborne, things quickly went sour.

They had expected Order protection.

They hadn't expected seven bloody Potters.

Bellatrix, true to her word, only sent out a Killing Curse when one was first directed at Severus. He, for some reason, was too busy shooting a severing charm at one of the "Potters" to have seen and deflected it. Hermione clung to her mother's back and tried only to disarm and stupefy… much like one particular Potter, the one on the motorbike.

"That's the real Harry," said Hermione, though she hadn't meant to say it out loud, hadn't meant to set everyone on Hagrid and her friend.

Mad-Eye fell. She didn't see who sent him spiraling toward the ground.

Hedwig was killed. Why? A senseless death. Hermione's heart hurt.

They all split up. She and Bella followed Harry… and then the Dark Lord was there…

They battled. The wand exploded. The Dark Lord swore.

And then, only two were following Harry – Hermione and Bellatrix. There was a weird rippling feeling, and then they were zooming toward a familiar house. The motorbike crashed. Its occupants disappeared. Bellatrix landed them in a small, well-kept backyard.

"This is Aunt Andromeda's house," whispered Hermione.

"Appears to be," said Bellatrix. "Wand out."

Hermione held hers at the ready. The crept up on her aunt's home, stepped carefully through her garden ("She'll kill us if we crush her flowers," said Bellatrix, only half-joking) and peered through the window. Bellatrix performed a quick nonverbal spell, and they could hear the people inside.

"YOU!" shouted Harry. Hermione cupped her hands around the glass and put her face close to see better.

"Harry, no!" shouted Tonks. "This is my mother!"

"Your mother?"

"Andromeda Tonks," said Hermione's aunt, sounding slightly annoyed. "And I look nothing like my sister, thank you. I'm far better looking."

"Bitch," muttered Bellatrix. "She wishes."

"Where are the others?" asked Harry.

"This is a safe house," explained the voice of a man. "You've all gone to different ones. Don't worry, we're heavily protected here. The only ones who can enter the grounds are you, Hagrid, and blood relatives. Complicated old magic."

"Ted Tonks," Bellatrix explained. "My sister's homosexual husband."

"Bisexual," Hermione corrected without thinking.

Bellatrix grabbed her wrist.

"Come along, Hermione. Time for a family reunion."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **27 July, 1960**

 **(thirty-seven years ago)**

"He's an ugly baby," Bellatrix, age nine, whispered to her little sisters. They were at Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion's home, 12 Grimmauld Place. Their mother was having tea with their aunt, who had her son, Sirius, positioned on her lap. He was not yet a year old, but Auntie was already talking about having another, and Bella couldn't understand why. All this first one did was scream, cry, drink from a bottle, and need his nappy changed. He didn't even smell good the way some babies do, like powder and fresh cotton.

"You weren't so ugly," she whispered to Narcissa, the baby of their family since the death of little Nyx some three years ago. "Don't think Andromeda was so ugly either. Nyx wasn't ugly, just too small. Babies are not supposed to be ugly. They're supposed to be sweet."

" _All_ babies are ugly, but their mothers think them sweet," said Andromeda, sounding much older than her seven years.

"Well _I_ think he's sweet," said Narcissa. "He has pink cheeks."

"He has _red_ cheeks," corrected Bellatrix. "From screaming all the time."

As if he'd heard them, eight-month-old Sirius began to wail, throwing himself back in his mother's arms and flailing his tiny fat fists.

"I'm never having babies," said Bellatrix, looking disgusted.

"Never!" agreed Andromeda, equally disgusted.

But little Narcissa was rushing toward their mother and aunt, her scrawny arms outstretched.

"Let _me_ hold him, Auntie! I'll play with him! He _likes_ me!"

"She's an angel," said Aunt Walburga as Narcissa settled on the floor with baby Sirius, making peak-a-boo faces at him until he stopped crying.

"She is," agreed their mother. "We're quite proud of her. Of all our girls. We couldn't ask for better."

Though they still thought their cousin was an ugly baby, Bellatrix and Andromeda settled beside him and Cissy on the floor and beamed.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **29 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

The Dark Lord stood and stared down at his young daughter, who was seated on the expensive leather couch in the Malfoy's small formal parlor, the one used exclusively for entertaining only the most important guests – a room that hadn't been used at all since Lucius went to Azkaban.

Hermione stared back up at him. To her left sat Professor Snape. To her right, her mother.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, not because she was, but because it felt like it might be what he wanted to hear.

To her surprise, he smiled.

"No need to apologize, Hermione." He cupped her cheek. "Your behavior at the home of your aunt was most surprising."

Hermione chewed her lip. Staring down at her, the Dark Lord was smiling. Beside her, Bellatrix was scratching at her chest, above the swooped neck of her bodice. On the other side, the professor was stoic, unmoving, expressionless. She wasn't sure which was most unnerving.

"I lost my temper, my Lord," she said finally.

"No more of this 'my Lord,' Hermione. You are my daughter, are you not?"

She glanced at Bellatrix, who nodded.

"I am."

"Does your cousin Draco call his father 'My Lord'?"

"No, sir."

"Did you address Mr. Granger as 'My Lord?'"

"Never, sir."

"Then it shan't do so, either. 'My Lord' is the respectful way to be addressed by my followers, and you may continue to do so in their presence, so as to avoid discord, but in private – or among family and friends, such as now – you may call me, Father."

"Father?"

"Do you think your mother call me 'my Lord' in private, Hermione?"

Hermione shrugged. Honestly, yes, she did. She glanced to Bellatrix again, but the woman only scratched harder, leaving little red lines across her skin.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "In private, she uses my former name, my given name, a name I do not allow others to speak. That name would not be fitting for you to use for me, but Father – Father is most appropriate, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes?"

"Yes." He chuckled again. "That fiery temper of yours – we shall have to help you learn to control it. A witch or wizard is nothing if not in control. But I admire your tenacity, your bravado. You are indeed my daughter, and your mother's as well. An ideal mix of both of us. Brilliant, magically gifted, an academic overachiever, passionate about what you believe in... We couldn't ask for better. And, tonight, you showed us your potential. You showed _me_ your mother was right in insisting we keep you here. You showed us both you can be trusted with your wand."

He leaned down and, as he had only once before, pressed a kiss to her forehead. When he straightened, his smile had grown.

"Hermione, my daughter… I am proud of you."

* * *

 **A/N:**

First, thank you all so, so much for your outpouring of condolences, consideration, kind words, and understanding about my grandmother and my delay in posting. I can't tell you how much I appreciated all of it. Thanks, also, for all of the reviews, feedback, and sharing your reactions. I love every one of them! AND Thank you for your patience!

LotusAivy pointed out that I'd made a mistake in having Trelawney employed at Hogwarts way too early. I tried to go back and change it but it would be too much, considering all of the references I have about Bella and Divination and such, so I decided to go the route you saw in this chapter instead. :) Thanks for letting me know, though - I don't know what I was thinking! Please, if you catch something like that, don't be afraid to PM me!

Some canon-related previous chapter(s) 'housekeeping' stuff - I changed the day Harry is moved out of Privet Drive from 27 July to 28 July so Charity could be killed on the 27th. Also, I didn't invent the dragot. JKR mentioned it in an interview when asked about American wizarding currency. Plus, when it came to the Horcruxes, I switched the creation of the locket and the diadem. Lastly, in the books Regulus joined the Dark Lord at sixteen and was dead at eighteen, but I aged him to seventeen when he joined, so I killed him at nineteen.

 **-AL**

 **PS:** "Kiss From a Rose" by Seal hit number 28 on the UK charts in 1995, Hermione's last year of 'freedom.' "Rocky Raccoon" really is a Beatles song, my favorite one. Severus would have been about 8 years old when he first heard it (1968). The other songs listed as theirs are really theirs, too. Rights belong to them or to whomever has purchased the songs since. Give the White Album a listen!


	24. 31 JULY

**TW:**

 **The Rodolphus-centric flashback scene toward the end that begins with a line about the Dark Lord not condoning rape may be upsetting for some readers. It's not graphic, does not involve Hermione, and no rape happens on the page, but it is suggested. Some readers may wish to skip that scene. Later, similarly, the scene that starts with Hermione taking a shower may be too much for some readers. Skip to the next scene if necessary.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:**

 **31 JULY**

 **31 July, 1980**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

Lily Evans Potter labored for fourteen straight hours, doing her breathing exercises and squeezing her husband's hand during contractions. When it was time, she bore down and pushed, and Baby Boy Potter entered the world.

"He's beautiful," she said, tears in her eyes, staring down at him in awe. She couldn't believe anything so incredible had come from her, from them, from their love. A baby. A boy.

"He looks like a Harry," said James, standing beside the bed, smiling down at their son. Harry had been one of their top three possible names for boys. They'd whittled the girls' names down to four. But they hadn't wanted to make a final decision until they officially met their newborn.

"Harry," echoed Lily. She gently touched his tiny fingers, pinched his teeny toes, and examined him for imperfections – there were none. Not in her eyes. No, in her eyes, he was sheer perfection.

"Harry," said James again. "Do you think?"

 _Harry?_ _Harry Potter._ _Did it fit?_

"Yes," she said, after a long, thoughtful pause. "Yes, he looks like a Harry."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Hermione lay in bed long after breakfast had been served, thinking about Harry. About Ron. About Ginny and Neville and Luna and the Weasleys and Sirius Black and Hagrid and Dumbledore and all of them, all the people she used to care about like they were her own family.

Before she knew her own family.

Back when the Grangers were her only parents.

She missed them.

It was Harry's birthday. He was of age today.

She wondered if he was spending it with Ron and Ginny at the Burrow, or maybe at Grimmauld Place, though when her mother asked if she knew where they might have taken him after the unfortunate ordeal at Aunt Andromeda's, Hermione had said she didn't know.

"Your eggs are cold," said Lucius, the one assigned to watch her this morning. She didn't understand why she still needed watching. The Dark Lord said he was going to be giving her new freedoms. He even let her hold onto her wand during waking hours now. And surely Rodolphus wouldn't try anything with his wife (ex-wife?) and the Dark Lord right there in the Manor, a scream or two away.

But she was being minded now just as she had been all month, and she hated it.

"I'm not hungry."

"Let's not be petulant, dear girl, it's unbecoming," scolded Lucius offhandedly, his nose in that bloody financial journal he was always scouring.

"Lack of hunger makes me petulant?" She turned her head to shoot him a dirty look, but he didn't even glance her way. By her feet, Crookshanks stretched and purred. The Malfoy patriarch had brought him a special breakfast of raw chicken and cooked liver, so he was feeling quite full and happy.

"You have a wand now. Use it. Practice your spells. You said you were rusty. You were slow to disarm Draco during last night's duel. He bested you five of seven times."

"I remember last night, thanks."

After dinner, the Dark Lord had made her perform for a small audience of close friends and family, like a monkey with a tiny accordion or an elephant on a ball, showing him all the spells she'd previously mastered and battling her cousin one-on-one, but to her great upset she was not as strong as she'd been, not as fast, the spells did not come as second nature. It took her three tries to conjure Feindfyre, her Patronus looked more like a blob than an otter, and when he'd given her the opportunity to attack Draco with a five second head start, he still managed to disarm her with ease.

It was humiliating.

Later, even though her mother was in the bed beside her, she'd quietly cried herself to sleep.

"Start with the basics," said Lucius. "Wingardium Leviosa, perhaps. Or Accio."

She narrowed her cinnamon brown eyes at the ceiling and felt for her wand beside her in the bed. "I suppose I could start with Stupefy."

Lucius chuckled. "Please, do. But don't warn me first. I'm suffering from ennui myself, in case it escaped your notice. A sneak attack would keep things interesting." He tapped against the desk his wife's wand, which they were sharing since his had been taken – and accidentally destroyed – by the Dark Lord. "Let's see if I, like my son, can manage a Protego before the word Stupefy has fully left your lips."

"Never mind," she said. "I'll practice later, when Professor Snape comes."

"Professor Snape is not coming today. Didn't Cissa tell you?"

"What?" Hermione sat up. "Not at all?"

"Not today. Pressing business. What business? I know not. But he will not return for at least one, possibly two nights. In the interim, practice your spell work. When he returns, he'll want to see improvement. You know, dear girl, I'd long heard you were bright, capable, and talented. My son has spent years whining about the Muggleborn witch besting him in every class, achieving the highest marks. But given what I saw yesterday, I'm surprised you managed to pass your O.W.L. practicals."

Hermione glared at him. This was the most her uncle had ever spoken to her, and now she just wished he'd shut it.

"I don't need a lecture from the likes of you," she snapped.

"Dear girl…" He lowered the paper. "This is no lecture. It's advice. Practice your magic. You have it in you. The Dark Lord was most impressed by your showing at the home of your aunt. You performed well there, in the moment, but poorly when asked to demonstrate later. Therefore, I believe it is clear that you've inherited a bit more of the Blacks than I might have imagined. When you overthink, you set yourself up for failure – my wife and sister-in-law are the same. Your mother, knowing this, typically acts first and thinks later, which can cause its own troubles, whereas my wife second-guesses herself and internalizes everything to the point of stagnation. Your circumstances have changed over this past year, and that affects who you are, how your magic works for you. I understand that. Trust me. I know how it is to be trapped and wandless and wondering if you'll ever find yourself or connect with your loved ones again. But the magic is not disappeared. It is still in you. You haven't lost your abilities, you've lost your confidence."

Hermione nodded. He was right, of course. She'd been at her best (and worst!) the other night at Aunt Andromeda's, when she started an argument with Harry that led to her attacking several Order members and escaping with her mother. She hadn't even thought about what she was doing, she'd just done it.

And she'd been second-guessing it ever since.

"This is disgusting." He waved Narcissa's wand, Vanishing her food. "I hate the smell of cold eggs. Come. I'll take you up to the kitchen and you can prepare your own breakfast, or have a house-elf do it. Or you may sit there and watch me sip coffee and drink toast. I don't care what you choose, but I cannot spend another minute confined to this cell."

She sprang up from the bed and went to the small freestanding wardrobe for her plush new dressing gown and house slippers, a surprise gift from the Dark Lord, who said he'd asked her mother what she needed most. Giving practical gifts was, apparently, part of his new Be a Father agenda. She tied the belt around the gown in a loose bow.

"Come along," said Lucius impatiently. "This reminds too much of a place I'd rather not remember."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Bellatrix was getting good and drunk.

She didn't get good and drunk often.

The Dark Lord didn't particularly like her drunk.

But others did. She was funny, they used to tell her. She was lively. The life of the party, even. Uninhibited. Spirited. Flirtatious and bold and a firecracker.

Even her father found her amusing when she'd been drinking, though he'd remind her to stop before she'd had too much. He used to say, "The bark doesn't fleck far from the Wiggentree!" with an arm clamped around her shoulders, grinning, a frosty mug of cold Ogden's Ale in his free hand.

"Bellatrix, you're a lady," her mother would hiss in her ear, a reminder that really meant, "Don't embarrass me. You're not your father."

Father was a fun drunk. He'd get boastful, become a braggart, take a dare he knew he shouldn't. He was the "hold my Firewhisky," type; he was forty-three when he got snockered and agreed to climb a tree wearing nothing but a blindfold and a pair of swim shorts. He fell out, unsurprisingly, and got a broken arm in the process, but he'd made it all the way to the top first! Which he bragged about the next time he consumed too much.

She wasn't quite like him, didn't become overly daring and dangerous when drunk, but she wasn't like the others in her family when inebriated, either.

She certainly wasn't a sad, pitiable drunk like Narcissa, who'd have a little too much wine and dissolve into tears over this or that. Narcissa would drink to escape, but the alcohol often had the opposite effect, trapping her in whatever bad mental state she'd already found herself slipping down into.

She wasn't a mess-of-a-drunk like Andromeda, who once returned from a Hogsmeade excursion so pissed she couldn't find her own common room. She stopped in the hall to ask Professor McGonagall whether she'd ever performed fellatio in the Forbidden Forest, then vomited all over the castle floor before passing out cold.

And she wasn't an angry drunk like Mother, who rarely imbibed, but got vicious once she'd done so, tearing them all down with her words and, on occasion, with her quick open palm. It didn't take much alcohol to rob mother of her filter, and when she was able to say exactly what she wanted, it wasn't what anyone needed to hear.

Bellatrix rarely drank because it meant losing control, and she couldn't afford to lose control.

Today, she was making an exception.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1977**

 **(twenty years ago)**

"If I were a wandless, useless Muggle, I'd have had to leave you there on the floor of your parents' parlor, sozzled for all their social circle to see," said the Dark Lord, who had Bellatrix hovering in the air in front of him. She was too far gone to walk, but not quite unconscious.

"You're handsome," she replied, though the second words sounded like, "Hannshum."

He sighed.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, whatever shall I do with you?"

"Sex," she answered.

He chuckled.

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. I have a personal policy that prevents me from taking advantage of women who cannot consent." The door to her childhood bedroom opened with a wave of his hand (as he was still using the wand to keep her steadily moving). He settled her onto her bed, but did so with a look of reproach, for this was the first time he was seeing her childhood bedroom.

"This is yours?" he asked incredulously, wondering if she'd somehow mixed up her own and that of her youngest sister, but she nodded.

"Mine," she said.

His lip curled.

The room had been largely untouched since she left home to be married shortly after finishing her Hogwarts education. She'd stayed here a couple of times in the decade since, mostly when she'd gotten fed up and left her husband (to whom she always returned) but she hadn't exactly seen fit to redecorate. The eggshell white ceiling and hardwood floors were fine, and he wasn't completely put off by the dark purple walls (though they made the room look smaller), but the rest of it?

She had a massive collection of stuffed animals that his eyes could not focus on yet, thus he diverted his focus to the end of the room by the window, where her desk was. It looked like she'd been sitting at it just yesterday doing summer homework, covered with parchment and books and ink wells and quills, an open Ancient Runes textbook and a closed Transfiguration one, nothing neat or in its place.

There were posters on the walls showing off her love for Spellbound, a trio of underdressed witches who sang about unrequited love, The Bent-Wing Snitches, an American band known for controversial lyrics, the Weird Sisters, who'd only hit the scene in her last year at Hogwarts, and Nosferatu, a rock band fronted by a vampire the Dark Lord had once tried to recruit, as the creature had amassed a large following mostly comprised of wayward idiotic young girls who romanticized his condition and were therefore willing to fall into bed with him after shows. Their music was awful but their influence could be an asset.

"You listen to that rubbish?" he asked, indicating Nosferatu. She opened one eye.

"Bes' song's 'Bite Me,'" she said. "Sooo momantic. He loves a witch f'revvvver." She tried to sing the chorus, but it came out a slurred tone-deaf jumble. _"Biiiitte me, all luvuh frevver, Ahhll biiite you, frrever an' everr…."_

"Please." The Dark Lord clamped a hand over her mouth. She licked his palm to make him pull away, which he did, but at least she stopped singing.

"What choice does the vampire have but to love her forever?" he asked, wiping her saliva off onto his robe. "He turns her immortal with his bite."

"Ezzactly, Tom," she said, as if this weren't a terrible thing – and as if use of _that name_ wasn't strictly prohibited except in special circumstances. "Foreverrr an' everr an' everr. Momantic. I mean, _romantic_. Nofersatu. Nos… Nosfruh…"

"Nosferatu, yes, I know."

Though the Dark Lord was usually able to ignore their large age difference, nothing shoved it in his face like being here in this room. The girl was, after all, only six weeks into twenty-six, less than a decade out of school and her teen years and a stone's throw away from crushes on musicians she'd never meet, while he would be turning fifty-one in a matter of months and felt as though he'd already lived twice that. At a teenager, he'd never had a room entirely of his own in which to put up posters, and even if he had, he couldn't imagine wanting to fall asleep with the scantily clad witches of Spellbound staring down at him, swishing their hips and winking. He'd also never attended a concert or been a big fan of the Wizarding Wireless Network. He could not recall any time spent singing, or being sung to. Perhaps he'd never really been a teenager, nor a child either. He'd certainly never desired lime green silk sheets or stuffed animals.

He sighed and wandered, wondering what to do next, as he took in the rest of the bedroom.

Her wardrobe door was open so he could see dress after dress, corsets, those trousers Muggle girls were wearing – the tight ones that flared out at the bottom – and a couple of old school uniforms. Another reminder of her age. Scattered at the bottom were trainers and high heels and lace-up boots and ballet flats and house slippers and even a pair of ice skates; he hadn't known she could skate.

There were photographs on the top of an overfilled bookcase near the door. He looked them over. Bellatrix, laughing with her sisters outside Honeydukes, all wearing Slytherin scarves. Bellatrix in a beautiful gown on the arm of her father at her seventeenth birthday celebration. Bellatrix being held by her mother as a toddler. Bellatrix making faces with her little cousin Regulus, a shot taken at Grimmauld Place.

No pictures of her with friends, he noted. Nor any with a boyfriend – or her husband – either. Didn't she have friends? Had she ever dated? He knew Lestrange had been her only other sexual partner, but surely she must have gone to dinners, Hogwarts dances, Christmas parties?

He picked up the most recent photograph of Bella, in which she was seated at a long banquet table, fixated on a figure just beyond the frame. He recognized several of his Death Eaters in the shot and prodded them to move down, revealing the object of her attention.

It was him. Of course. He should have known.

But it didn't make him loathe this room any less.

Worst of all was the bed on which she lay.

The queen-sized four-poster was covered by a thick, heavy, deep mauve and neon pink striped comforter, folded down at the head over lime green silk sheets with matching pillowcases. He found the color contrast garish, but what was even more alarming was the collection of stuffed unicorns lined up three-deep against the headboard. There had to be close to thirty of them.

Thirty.

Stuffed.

Unicorns.

"What are these?" he asked, as if he couldn't plainly see. He had to prod her twice to get her to open her eyes and answer.

"U-uh-corms," she finally slurred, grabbing the rattiest old one and cuddling it to her chest. "I like."

He frowned. "I see."

"Cissy has Niffers an' Meda had thummer-burrs. Get a new one for Chrissmass an' birffday ev'ry year."

"Nifflers and thunderbirds?"

"Mm-hm." She closed her eyes and snuggled the soft stuffed unicorn against her cheek. "This one's called Hydra. 'Ats my favrit name. Hydra."

"Hydra," he repeated dully. "I see."

She held up another, this one pink and purple with white hair. "Thiss is Misster Higglepiggle."

"Higgle. Piggle." He cocked an eyebrow.

"His wife, Missus Higglepiggle." A white unicorn with green hair. "And this was my firsss one, name's Corn-corn." She thrust a ratty gray one at him. It had lost half its hair, it had only one eye, and it looked like someone had chewed on its legs. "Corn-corn, say 'hullo Dark Lord.' Dark Lord, say 'hullo, Corn-corn.'"

"Hello Corn-corn," he said obediently, but he pinched her wrist and moved her hand away from him, not wanting the nasty old toy anywhere near his face.

"Misster Voldy-more?" She collapsed onto the bed, unable to hold her head up any longer. "I love u-uh-corss."

He'd had no idea she owned a vast collection of named stuffed unicorns, or that she even liked them, just as he didn't know she could ice skate, hadn't pictured her as the sort with a messy desk, and wasn't aware of her 'thing' for the lead singer of Nosferatu.

It was like being in the bedroom of a stranger.

"You over-indulged tonight, Bella." He sat on the edge of her bed, knocking off several fluffy unicorns in the process. "You shouldn't have. A drunk mind is an open mind."

She reached for him, grabbed hold of the front of his wizard's robes, and tried to pull him down beside her on the bed.

"Tom Riddle?"

"Yes, Bellatrix?"

"Lesss make a baby."

"Let's not."

"I love you."

"You don't."

"I do." She released his robe, though, and rolled onto her back, the ratty old unicorn smushed against her chest. "Tomorrow, I divross Rol-dol-phus an' marry you."

"Tomorrow, we'll have a discussion about decorum."

"Tom? Tom Riddle?" (She was certainly getting a lot of use out of that name while too pissed to know better. He decided not to punish her for it… this time.) "Tom?"

"Yes?"

"You love me?"

"Oh, Bella." He almost, _almost_ felt badly for her. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then stood and made his way toward the door. Just before exiting, he answered her question.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

"You unimaginable bastard!" Nymphadora Tonks spat at the feet of Severus Snape, who had captured her and used a spell of his own invention to attach her to a tree in the middle of an unfamiliar forest. It was as if her entire body was bound to it by invisible ropes, and she was furious. She'd come to this way after being ambushed and passing out earlier in the morning.

"Behave, Nymhadora, or I shall dock your House points."

"Go fuck yourself."

"I am invited to do so on an increasingly regular basis. Perhaps I should take you up on that. But alas – how?"

She struggled and swore and tried to free herself, but he was holding onto her wand, and she couldn't apparate away… in her condition.

"I do apologize," he said silkily, without seeming sorry at all. "Had I remembered that you're 'in trouble,' I would not have risked splinching you. When we're through, I'll lead you to a dirt road from which you should be able to catch the Knight Bus."

"They don't call it 'in trouble' when the woman is married and the baby was planned."

"The baby was planned?" He laughed. "By whom? Certainly not by the werewolf. Was it your plan alone?"

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"About that, you're right. But I have questions regarding another matter."

"Get answers from someone else."

"No, thank you, I'd rather get answers from you. We have history, you see." He stepped close and leaned in as if about to kiss her. She turned her head.

"Oh, no more?" he tutted as if disappointed. "Forgive me. I assumed, because you had no qualms about being unfaithful to your werewolf when dating, you'd be similarly comfortable with cheating on him now that you're married. But I suppose not all women take after their mothers."

She screamed and fought again against her binding, thrashing and pulling, but to no avail.

"Relax, Mrs. Lupin." He chortled. "As it turns out, I currently desire you no more than you do me. But I am in need of information. Information you could provide."

"Why should I?"

"Because to do so is in your best interest."

"I won't talk!" she shouted. "Not even if you torture me! Do your worst! I won't say a bloody word!"

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing eye contact.

"Nymphadora, please. You know full well I won't hurt you. But you also know I am a patient man, and if I have to sit here all day and all night until you're ready to talk, then sit here I shall. They teach Aurors to withstand great torture, but they can't teach pregnant women to hold their bladders indefinitely. Not even magic can do that."

He sat on the ground, his back against another tree, and picked up a small, smooth rock. He promptly transfigured it into a drinking glass.

"Aquamenti."

He filled the glass, took a long sip of water, and refilled it.

"Thirsty?"

"You play dirty," she snapped.

"You used to like me dirty." He smirked.

"All I liked was angering my mother, but I've grown beyond that, now."

"Since when?" he asked curiously. "Since June?"

"I hate you."

"Most of my former students do." His smile broadened; he took a sip. "More do than don't, believe it or not."

"I believe it. What I can't believe is that I ever fucked you."

"To be candid, I can't believe that either. Just between us, you could have done better." Thinking of Lupin, his smile turned to a sneer. " _Could have_ done better, but _didn't_. Tell me, is Mummy happy to know her little bitch will be bringing home a litter of grandpups? She doesn't like half-breeds, does she? I seem to recall her voting against rights for werewolves, house-elves, and vampires back when she served on the Wizengamot. Has she since changed her tune?"

"My mother will love any grandchild I bring home, and she's glad I've gotten married," said Nymphadora, but without complete conviction. Quickly, she added, "She has come a long way since the 1980s, and hasn't served on the Wizengamot in almost ten years."

"Indeed. I hope you're right, for the sake of the little bastard."

"My child will not be a bastard, Snape. We're married, Remus and me."

"Remus and I," he corrected, just to be an arse. Her glare intensified. He shrugged.

Another gulp of water. Another refill. She squirmed. The sound of running water, even for only a few seconds, made her have to Go.

"Nothing like a cold drink on a hot day, wouldn't you agree?" He sent a stream of water arching up from his wand, landing at her feet, splashing her bare ankles and calves. "Let me know when you're ready to talk."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **30 July, 1997**

 **(yesterday)**

The Dark Lord wanted to see Hermione duel.

She'd never really been one for dueling, outside of Dumbledore's Army practices.

But she agreed to battle Draco.

They had an audience of twelve. The Dark Lord, Bellatrix, Lucius, Narcissa, and Severus Snape were joined by the Lestrange brothers, the Carrows, weedy little Wormtail, a man called Yaxley, and a silver-haired woman Hermione did not know.

She and Draco got into position, the way Professors Flitwick and Snape and Lockhart had shown them.

The first time he bested her, she chalked it up to being rusty.

The second time, she felt frustrated and angry with herself.

The third time, she wanted to kill someone… but NOT a house-elf.

The fourth time, when she thought he might have let her win, she bit back tears. The fifth time, she lost. The sixth time, when he definitly let her win, the tears fell freely.

After their seventh duel, and her fifth loss, the Dark Lord let her quit.

He wasn't proud tonight.

He was disappointed.

But not half as much as she was.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Narcissa and Lucius were minding her together this evening, and it was worse than being with either of them alone. They sat outside her cell on a transfigured loveseat, where they whispered to each other and sipped wine and occasionally flirted as if Hermione wasn't nearby, while she was sat at her desk trying to concentrate on The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five – embarrassing curriculum for a would-be seventh year student (come September).

They'd already had dinner, the three of them with Draco, and she wouldn't mind going straight to bed but it was not even eight o'clock. Her mother was supposed to have been with her tonight, but apparently the woman had been drinking all day and was in no fit shape for anything that required lifting her head for long periods or walking without stumbling.

"Why's she drinking?" Hermione asked Narcissa over the veal.

"She won't say," answered Narcissa.

"Where are the others?" asked Hermione, meaning her father and the Lestrange brothers.

"Out," Draco had answered. "For the night, likely. Uncle said, 'See you tomorrow' before they left."

"Who was the woman here last night?"

"Evangeline Chaucer," answered Lucius. "Follower of the Dark Lord from before the start of the first war. If I'm not mistaken, she woke up here this morning."

"Whore!" spat Narcissa. Both her husband and son looked surprised to hear the word leave her lips.

"You dislike her?" asked Hermione.

"She used to flirt with your uncle," said Narcissa, shooting Lucius a Look. "Shamelessly. He had to turn her down on more than one occasion. Didn't you, my love?"

"I did." He stabbed at the meat on his plate. "She did not understand the concept of fidelity, having never practiced it within her own marriage, and could not fathom why I might value it in mine."

"I have no patience for women who lust after other women's husbands." Narcissa sipped her wine. "Nor for men who forget their vows the moment their wives' backs are turned."

Lucius looked almost hurt. "Lotus blossom, you know I'd never."

"I know, my love." Another sip. "But she could have stopped after the first rejection."

"Chess after dinner?" Draco asked Hermione, changing the subject in an attempt to diffuse the tension. "You owe me a rematch."

"Not tonight," said Hermione. "My parents and yours are right. I need to brush up on my spell work. Being without a wand for so long – _over_ a year – has dulled me."

"Alright." Draco looked disappointed, but did not argue.

Now, hours later, Hermione was wishing she had agreed to play. She couldn't concentrate on the textbook in front of her with her aunt's occasional giggle wafting across the cell, knowing her uncle was likely whispering all sorts of nonsense in the woman's ear.

"Are you both staying all night?" asked Hermione testily. She looked over to the loveseat, where Narcissa had her legs flung over her husband's lap.

"No," said Lucius. "I'll go up to bed soon."

"I wish I could join you," said Narcissa. She glanced at Hermione. "No offense."

"None taken. I wouldn't mind sleeping alone. Just for the night? The Lestranges aren't here. Nor is the Dark Lord. You can take my wand up with you." (She knew she'd never be able to hold on onto it at night unattended anyway, thus might as well make the offer in good faith.)

"I don't think that's a good–" started Narcissa, but Lucius interjected.

"She's an adult, Cissa. A grown woman. And even the Dark Lord believes we can trust her now as we couldn't before. We'll have her wand. All she has to do is sleep, and we shall check in on her in the morning. No one else is here." He kissed the back of his wife's hand. "Draco, Bellatrix, and the two of us. What could happen?"

"I… don't know."

"Please, Auntie? Please! I promise, all I'll do is read for an hour or two, then get to sleep early. I might take a long shower first. And Crookshanks is here. If there's an emergency, he can squeeze through the bars and go scratch at your door. Or I'll call for a house-elf. I miss sleeping alone, sprawling out… not having to worry about my drool."

Narcissa's hand went up to her cheek, as she was remembering the morning she'd awoken on a wet pillow.

"Alright," she said finally. Lucius and Hermione looked equally thrilled. "But I'll take your wand, and be back first thing in the morning, so don't try anything. Understand?"

"I'm being minded for my own protection, remember? Not for anyone else's. So what would I try?"

"Very well." Narcissa reached through the bars. Hermione handed her the wand, and, for good measure, the quill she'd used as a facsimile once or twice as well.

"Goodnight, niece," said Lucius, clearly quite ready to head to bed with his wife.

"Goodnight, Uncle," she said. "Goodnight, Auntie."

"Sleep well, Hermione, dear."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1977**

 **(twenty years ago)**

The Dark Lord did not condone rape, spousal abuse, beating women…

He made that much clear to his followers after that imbecile, Dolohov, was arrested.

But Rodolphus figured what the Dark Lord didn't know wouldn't hurt anyone.

He didn't put pressure on his own wife, not anymore. Didn't even _try_ to get her into bed, and hadn't laid a finger on her – neither a gentle nor a punishing one – since he'd been ordered not to touch her. He knew better than to openly defy his master.

But other women? Why did it matter? Who cared?

No one cared when he went to the brothel on Diagon Alley and paid experienced prostitutes to service him. No one cared when he found tipsy young women in pubs and offered to help them find their way home.

And no one cared when he was sent to exterminate a Mudblood family, so he took a little extra time to give it to the wife and her two teenage daughters before using the Killing Curse on all of them.

Nor would anyone care now, as the party at the Cottage House was winding down, when he gently guided an old school friend of Narcissa's out to the conservatory to observe the roses or peonies or clovers or whatever the fuck it was Bellatrix's mother was growing in there.

"I don't think we should be doing this," she said as he kissed her neck and caressed her breast. "We're going to get caught, and I'm engaged."

"We're not going to get caught," he insisted. He inched up her dress until she was exposed from the waist-down (though she wore stockings).

"I think we should go back into the party," she said. "My fiancé is away for work, but he'll be back in a week…"

"He won't be back tonight." He kissed the side of her mouth, then her jawbone, then her neck. The hand on her breast squeezed harder. The other hand slipped between her legs…

"I like you, but…"

"You've been flirting with me all night."

"I was being friendly, that's–"

"You've been leading me on."

"No, I–"

"Relax," he said, rubbing her. "You want this."

"But my fiancé-"

"Never has to know."

"Please, no, I–"

Eventually her NOs got too loud and too distracting, so he did what any reasonable man in his situation would do–

A silencing charm, followed by a fast fuck, concluded with an Obliviate.

He left her lying on the floor of the conservatory, her dress still hiked up to her waist.

Rodolphus was a man who got what he wanted.

Every time.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

"I'll get what I want, eventually," said Severus, still stretched out on the ground against a tree, facing Nymphadora Tonks. "You could save us both some time by answering my questions now, rather than later."

"I'm not answering your questions now or later. If it means we both die here, so be it."

"Let's not be overdramatic." He sipped water. He'd consumed so much water in the last three-and-a-half hours, he was starting to feel like he was floating. He'd have to relieve himself soon. At least there were a number of trees to give him privacy.

"I'm not afraid of you, Snape."

"Good. It's mutual."

"I wish you were dead."

"Now, now, Nymphadora," he tutted. "No need to be nasty."

"People will be looking for me!"

"Yes," he said. He finished the water. "I imagine they will be, if they're not already. It may interest you to know, I've been reading about your condition."

"Have you? Fascinating. Were you shocked to learn how babies are made?"

(He ignored that.)

"Not _your_ condition, specifically, but that of expectant women. Tell me, are you experiencing morning sickness?" He pulled from a small pack a jar of pickles and a chocolate frog. "Having odd cravings? Got a metallic taste in your mouth that you can't quite identify? I believe that's normal."

"I'm not having cravings," she said, but her eyes locked onto that frog and her tummy rumbled so loud he could hear it from where he sat.

"Is that so?" He opened it, let it jump once, and caught it. "Shall we see who's on the card? Hm. Dumbledore. I wonder if it's worth more now that he's dead."

"You can fuck right off."

"Do you want me to go fuck myself or fuck right off? What's the difference? Semantics, I suppose. The act is more or less the same." He bit the head off the frog. After swallowing, he added, "Hungry? I like the legs, but you can have the body."

"I said I'm not hungry."

"No, you said you're not having cravings."

"I'm not having cravings _and_ I'm not hungry!"

Her tummy growled again, betraying her.

"Suit yourself." He opened the pickle jar. "When Narcissa was expecting Draco, she dipped pickles in hot fudge. It was absolutely revolting. I never tried it myself – watching was enough to squelch my appetite." He held the jar toward her, not that she could reach for it, still being attached to the tree. She shook her head anyway. "She also asked the house-elves to make peanut butter biscuits with a chocolate drizzle, then she dipped those in the pickle juice. She craved pickles, you see, and she liked to pair them with something sweet. Have you had peanut butter? I hadn't, not until I was twenty. When she was expecting, as a matter of fact, that's when I tried it for the first time. Wished I'd done so sooner. Delicious when paired with bacon, surprisingly."

"I had it once, it was disgusting," said Nymphadora, pulling a face. "Coated my entire mouth."

"Well, yes, if you have it by the spoonful it can do that. But baked in a biscuit, drizzled in chocolate, and dipped in pickle juice… not terrible. She also started asking for her meat much more cooked while gestating the boy. She'd never liked well done Beef Wellington before, and now, all these years later, she still prefers it overcooked. What about you? Now that you've got a little wolf in there, you might be craving different game, deer or beaver over beef or fish... or perhaps you simply prefer your steaks closer to raw?"

"I don't care what my aunt Narcissa ate while pregnant and I don't care to discuss with you my current favorite foods, either."

"Let's discuss what we came here to, then."

" _We_ didn't come here to discuss anything," she snapped. "You abducted me and brought me here! And when my husband finds out–"

"I find your mother more terrifying than your husband, Nymphadora. If you wish to intimidate me, threaten to send her my way instead."

"My mother never sufficiently terrified you. If she had, you wouldn't have kept shagging me after she told you to stop."

He smiled. "If I'm being candid, I wasn't getting it anywhere else, so short of being afraid she'd literally murder me I was willing to press my luck in that regard." He took a huge bite of pickle.

Her stomach grumbled again.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

She read for close to three hours, murmuring spells and charms and moving her hand as if brandishing her wand, trying to get back into practice. She was thankful to have had Professor Snape working with her all year, lest she might have atrophied completely, but it still hurt to know she wasn't as adept with a wand as she'd been.

What her uncle had said was true, though. When she didn't think about it first, when she just _acted_ , as she had at Aunt Andromeda's, she still had her spark, and her talents, too.

"Ugh. Crooskshanks, you should have seen me." She couldn't believe the way she'd behaved that night, and she couldn't understand why the Dark Lord was proud. She'd gone after her friend – former friend – with first her words, then her wand, all because he wouldn't accept the truth, even when it was staring him dead in the face.

And he'd lit into her as well. Called her a traitor, called her brainwashed. Told her she ought to have stayed dead.

Dead, like they were all told she was.

Dead, like Dumbledore wanted her to be.

She decided to take a long, hot shower, wash her hair, shave her legs, and closely examine that birthmark.

She'd taken swim lessons when she was small. On Day One, two other little girls had seen the birthmark and screamed.

"Don't come near us!" said one.

"Is it catching?" asked the other.

They wouldn't play with her, wouldn't even swim in the lane next to her. She'd gone home and wished she had magical powers so she could make that birthmark disappear. Or make those two girls disappear.

Or make herself disappear.

But then she'd gotten to Hogwarts, where she _did_ have magical powers and was learning how to use them. And suddenly getting rid of her birthmark – and disappearing – didn't seem so important.

Sure, those first two months were lonely. It was rough, being away from her parents. She didn't make friends right away. But then she had Harry. And Ron. And, later, Neville and Luna. Viktor Krum thought she was beautiful. Professor McGonagall told her she was brilliant. She stood out in a good way.

Who was she, now?

"You keep doing this to yourself," she muttered. "Stop dwelling. This is your life now. It's the life you were meant to have. You always wanted to know where you came from, who your birth parents were. Now you know."

Softly she sang, 'Here Comes the Sun.'

 _"…and I say, it's alright…"_

She sang as she scrubbed the birthmark a little harder than necessary.

Soon, though, her mind wandered. It wandered as she soaped up the rest of her body, and continued to sing, and thought about the potions professor. In particular, she thought about the morning they'd woken up together… the feel of his lips on hers… the caress of his hand on her breast… She flicked her thumb over her nipple. Having had someone in her room every night all month meant she hadn't spent any quality time with herself and her imagination as of late. Perhaps, tonight, she could rectify that. But not now. Not in the shower. That would mean wasting water, which was environmentally irresponsible. So, tabling that thought for later, she turned off the water, rang out her sopping thick hair, and wrapped a towel around her body. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped her hair in a second towel, then threw on her dressing gown. Being that she was alone, she would dress in the bedroom.

As she dried off and pulled on her pajamas, though, she couldn't shake the strange feeling she was being watched.

And, quite unlike when she fantasized about Professor Snape spying on her, this caused not a flutter between her legs, but a nervous swirl in the pit of her stomach.

"You're imagining things," she said aloud. "Crookshanks? Here, Crookshanks!"

He didn't come.

Maybe he was out of the cell hunting mice? Sometimes he left them for her outside the door. Little surprises, given with care, for which she praised him (though she was relieved when someone with a wand would do away with them).

"Crookshanks?" she called again, louder. Her voice echoed in the stone cellar. Still, her kitty did not come.

She hurriedly finished dressing and went to work on her hair. She needed to comb it through piece by piece while it was still wet, because if it dried this way it would be impossible later.

She put out her lights and got into bed. It was nearly midnight, she guessed, and though she was glad to be alone, she couldn't help wanting morning to come quickly.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

He hid behind the pillar, waiting, watching, his lip curled into a sneering smile, his trousers already growing tighter.

She stepped out of the loo with a towel around her body, her dressing gown on but open, her hair wrapped up.

He rubbed himself as she dried off and pulled on pajamas.

He'd waited a long time for this.

He'd take what he wanted, then Obliviate her after. He didn't care if she was his wife's child. He didn't care if it might be true that she was fathered by the Dark Lord. He didn't care if he got caught and tortured for it.

But she'd better be worth it.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1967**

 **(thirty years ago)**

Mummy wouldn't stop crying.

"I can help, Mummy," said Severus, age seven. He was a waifish, pale boy, with scrawny arms, knobby knees, and a nose his face might never grow into. His hair was black, to his shoulders, and greasy, as he infrequently washed it. They didn't have running water in the house, just an outhouse out back and a basin inside for washing. Mummy filled it every morning using Aquamenti after Dad left for work, because he didn't like to know she did things the magical way. He wanted her to use a bucket and the well water.

Even though Severus didn't have much interaction with other children, and even though he rarely ventured too far from Spinner's End, his Cokeworth street, he was reasonably certain most people didn't live this way anymore.

But they were poor, and had no money for indoor plumbing, a Muggle invention Mummy called, "Better than magic." She said the same about electricity. There were streetlights outside, but inside, they used oil lamps for light and the fireplace for heat and they cooked on a woodstove.

They were painfully poor.

But Mother made do.

"Someday, Severus, we're going to transform that nursery upstairs. Put in a toilet, a basin, a clawfoot bathtub big enough to swim in…"

Tonight, Dad had caught her using magic to salvage the dinner she'd burned. He'd threatened yet again to snap her wand, then he'd struck her.

He'd done so before, but this was the first time Severus heard her nose crack like that. The first time he'd seen his mother's face spill so much blood.

His father stormed out.

His mother sank to the kitchen floor and cried.

"Mummy, let me help?" Severus tried to touch her face gently with a soft, damp flannel he'd nicked off the neighbor's clothesline. She pulled back.

"Please, Mummy?" He tried again. He carefully washed away the blood from her lips and chin and under her nose, which had finally stopped gushing.

"I'm going to leave him, Sevvy," whispered his mother. "I'm going to get us a better life, I promise. I will. No matter what he says."

Tonight, he said she was lucky he let her live, for she wasn't worth half the headache she caused.

"I won't let him hurt you again, Mummy," said Severus, flexing the nonexistent muscles of his right arm. "I can protect you."

"Oh, my sweet boy." She pulled him to her chest, suffocating him against her bosom. "It is I who ought to be protecting you, not the other way around."

"Even so," he said, his voice muffled. "I'll grow big and learn spells and I'll make him be good to us, Mummy. I'll make him. I'll protect you. I promise. I will."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

Nymphadora Tonks talked in less time than he thought it would take. He was right, he didn't need to resort to torturing her (not that he would).

Eventually she was hungry and thirsty and she desperately had to pee, and he assured her it wouldn't bother him if she wet herself, and she agreed to give him answers in exchange for information. He didn't have to make a trade – he had the upper hand, obviously – but he thought it better to let her feel like she was doing something other than letting down her entire profession, thus he consented to an info swap.

This meant he'd get home earlier than expected.

But once he got home, he found he didn't want to be there.

Indoor plumbing had been a fixture since 1970, and there was a fridge stocked with food and a stove that worked thanks to Muggle electricity, and some rooms even had electric light fixtures, but the shabby old house felt dark and cold. Wormtail was there, skulking about in the bedroom that had been his as a boy, which left him to the room that had belonged to his parents. A dismal, depressing room that reminded him of his oft-abused mother and his alcoholic father.

He wanted to be anywhere else.

And so he Flooed to Malfoy Manor, hoping to find Lucius still awake and in the mood to split a bottle of Firewhisky or merlot.

No such luck.

"They've gone to bed," said Draco, who was battling himself in a game of wizard's chess in the library. "Want to play?"

"No, thank you," said Severus, though he momentarily considered the offer. "Bellatrix is with Hermione?"

"Bellatrix is pissed. By dinner she couldn't remember how to say her own name. Mother put her to bed hours ago, in a room of her own." Draco avoided the professor's eye. "Not with the Dark Lord. He's out."

"Out?"

"Out."

"And the Lestrange brothers?"

"Out, I think."

"You think?"

He shrugged. "They went out."

"Hermione is alone?"

Draco shrugged again. The boy was not himself, hadn't been in over a year. Severus had thought once the task was complete, he'd relax, and he had a bit, but he seemed to be teetering on the edge of a great depression now. Aside from his interactions with Hermione, when he seemed to be able to behave like a boy again, he was withdrawn and borderline sullen.

Perhaps Severus should mention his concern to Lucius in the morning.

But for now, he wanted to check on Hermione, left alone in the cellar.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **31 July, 1997**

 **(present)**

She closed her eyes, drew the blanket up to her chin, and tried to disappear into one of her go-to fantasies, being rescued from a madman by a handsome savior on a black horse. He'd slay her attacker, throw her on the back of the horse, and gallop them both to safety. Later, while hiding in their encampment (why they were hiding in an encampment she'd yet to work out) she'd tell him she owed him her life, and he'd say she didn't owe him anything for doing what was right, and she'd lean close and press her lips to his…

She was touching herself on the outside of her knickers but under the pajama bottoms when she heard heavy breathing that was not her own.

Her eyes flew open.

He was but a silhouette in the dark, scraggly hair, looming over her, watching.

She opened her mouth to scream.

He covered it with his hand.

"Wet for me, princess?"

She tried to shout, tried to shake her head, but he was pushing too hard on her mouth.

Rodolphus Lestrange.

He'd come back.

And she was wandless.

But she wouldn't give in without a fight, and so, when he drew back the blankets, she flailed and kicked and punched him repeatedly in the arms and chest, and when he flipped her onto her stomach she arched her back and kicked up her legs and tried to bite his arm, and when he groped her breast she screamed for a house-elf, though he quickly put a stop to that with a silencing charm.

He pulled back hard on her hair, which made her eyes tear, and reached for her pajama bottoms, attempting to work them down over her hips and arse, but she continued to rock her body from side to side and buck and fight, infuriating him.

"I like a little resistance but this is ridiculous!" He punched her hard in the center of her back, and had her voice not been silenced she'd have cried out from the pain. There would be a massive bruise there later.

"Best part is, you won't even remember what happened," he growled into her ear as the hand not keeping her arms pinned above her head went to undo his trousers. "You'll wake up with bite marks on your tits, come on your face, and a sore cunt, and you'll have no idea." He laughed. "I'm going to take my time and enjoy you, bitch – do you know how long it's been since I last fucked a virgin?"

She shook her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks now. She tried everything, even wandless magic, to propel him off her, and nothing worked.

"Let's see… if I'm not mistaken, it was the night I married your whore mother. Don't worry about being good for me. _She_ wasn't." He exposed himself. She couldn't see him, but she'd heard the zipper, and could feel _it_ pressing against the back of her thigh. "The Dark Lord gave me strict orders twenty years ago, I'm not to touch her. But he didn't say a damn thing about you." He sunk his teeth into her shoulder. Again, her mouth opened, and she felt as though she was wailing with pain, but no sound came out. "What first? Should I bugger you, or fuck that first time pussy? Maybe I should tie you down and taste you before–"

Without warning, Rodolphus flew off the bed, smacked into the stone wall, and crumpled to the floor. Though it surely must have hurt, he hurried to his feet, drawing his wand to face his assailant.

"You lay another finger on the girl and I'll cut off each one!" said a deep, silken, familiar voice.

"Fuck!" shouted Rodolphus, sending a stunner into the dark. It missed its mark.

"Sectumsempra!" The severing charm hit Rodolphus square in the face, slicing open his cheek and forehead, worse than Harry had done to Draco.

Rodolphus swore. One of his hands went up to put pressure on the wounds, while the other shakingly held his wand.

"Oppungo!" he shouted, and several books flew off the shelves toward Severus.

"Protego! Expelliarmus!" The disarming spell got Rodolphus before he could counter or block. Hermione rolled off the bed, fixed her pajama bottoms, and rummaged under her mattress for something she'd recently 'borrowed' from the Malfoy Manor kitchen. He'd taken only two steps toward her when she reacted.

She threw the knife with surprising precision.

It got Rodolphus in the chest, between his ribs, just a little lower than his heart. His mouth opened into a wide O, he grabbed the handle, and pulled out.

Blood followed the blade.

Hermione gaped in horror. She tried to speak, but still, no sound. Severus waved his wand in her direction, canceling the silencer, and hurried to Rodolphus, who was slipping to the floor, going unconscious.

"I didn't mean to kill him!" cried Hermione.

"Accio flannel!"

One flew from the loo. Severus caught it easily. "Accio Essence of Dittany! Accio Healing Salve! Accio Murtlap oil! Accio Draught of Living Death!" He staunched the bleeding, forced him to drink the Living Death, closed the incision, applied Healing Salve with a touch of Murtlap oil (in case the knife was cursed) and then added Essence of Dittany. He was glad they'd been brewing so much as of late.

While he worked, Hermione knelt beside her stepfather and tried to keep him sitting upright, as the professor said that was best.

"Did I kill him?" asked Hermione, after Professor Snape sat back on his heels, sighed, and indicated she could move away from the body.

"No. But it is my opinion that I should Obliviate him as he likely intended to do to you, and that we should not speak of this. I'll tell the Dark Lord about his inappropriate infatuation with you – someone should have spoken up sooner, the moment he and your mother returned from their time on the run – and we'll continue to keep a close watch over you, but if Rodolphus knows you put a knife in his chest, his bloodlust will only increase."

"If you think that's best."

"Who taught you to throw knives?" He pulled her to him, holding her against his chest on the floor with his back to the bed. Rodolphus was slumped against the cell wall, knocked out but already recovering; his breath was less ragged now, and his color was returning.

"I… I don't know. I've never thrown one before. Why?"

Severus shook his head, wiped his brow on his sleeve, and wrapped his arms more tightly around Hermione.

"Your mother is good with a knife. I've never seen anyone use one the way she does, with such accuracy – until tonight."

"Wonderful. I'm a natural killer, like my mother."

"Had he…" Severus winced, hating having to ask. "At what point had I interrupted?"

"He hadn't yet touched me anywhere too personal," she answered delicately. "But he did punch me in the back. It hurts."

"I'll look at it." He stood and helped her to her feet. She allowed him to lift the back of her shirt to see. The spot was already a deep red. He applied a newly developed bruise salve – the Healing Salve mixed with Dittany, a touch of Aloe, and a dash of Zinc – to the spot, massaging it into her skin. When he was through, she turned to face him.

"What now?"

"I'll hover him up to his bedroom and hope no one sees us in the halls, then I'll return here and spend the night with you. You're certain… nothing else happened?" He looked uncomfortable. "You can tell me. I helped Narcissa after her… incident."

"Nothing like that," Hermione assured him. "But only because you were here. I tried to fight him off myself, but I was wandless, and I couldn't get to the knife."

"I'll return soon. Stay awake. Wash the knife. Don't put it down."

"Yes, Sir."

He pressed his lips quickly to her forehead, then cast a hovering charm, which lifted Rodolphus' limp body in the air. It moved in front of him as he made his way out of the cell. He closed, but did not lock, the cell door.

Hermione was tempted to escape.

But where would she go?

She was a target everywhere. Rodolphus wanted to violate her. Dumbledore had wanted her dead. Her mother wouldn't allow them to be separated. The Dark Lord was just starting to trust her. Harry would never trust her again. The Grangers couldn't remember who she was. Ron probably hated her. Grandfather Cygnus was senile. And Aunt Andromeda probably thought she'd gone insane.

No. It made the most sense to sit here on the bed, holding the knife, and waiting for Severus Snape to

It seemed like hours before he did, but she knew scarcely ten minutes had passed. She flew to him when the door opened, leaving the knife on the bed, but before he could embrace her she backed away, glaring at him with suspicion.

"How do I know you're really you? That Rodolphus isn't using Polyjuice Potion to trick me?"

"That dunderhead couldn't brew a successful Polyjuice Potion if the only step he had to complete on his own was adding a strand of his intended subject's hair," said Severus dryly. "But it's smart of you to want verification of my identity. Ask me something only I would know."

"In my third year, you substitute taught a class. To what page did you tell us to turn, and what were we then studying?"

"Page three-hundred-and-ninety-four," he said. "The chapter on werewolves."

She let out a sigh of relief.

"Tell me what happened tonight." He sat in the desk chair and gestured for her to settle on the bed. She did so, though she couldn't help a shudder at the thought of what had nearly happened there. She explained how Lucius and Narcissa had thought it alright to leave her alone, how she'd studied, washed, and gotten into bed. She skipped the bit about fantasizing… and her brief thoughts of him while in the shower… and said that the attack started as she was falling asleep.

"It won't happen again," he assured her. "I'll protect you."

"You'll stay with me? All night?" Suddenly, she wasn't so keen to have the privacy she'd been desperate for only hours earlier.

"Yes." He transfigured a piece of spare parchment into a pillow on which he could rest his head, and fluffed it up on the desk.

"Auntie always sleeps with me," Hermione said. "It doesn't have to mean anything, or be inappropriate, to sleep beside another person. And it must be more comfortable than that desk."

He nodded. He was exhausted and sore from having spent all day outside sitting with his back against a tree. After a few moments of contemplation, he rose, kicked off his shoes, removed his frock coat, and sat beside her on the bed in his trousers, shirt, and socks (all black, as usual, though his socks had dark gray on the toes).

Hermione crawled under the blankets and handed him his transfigured pillow from the desk.

"I feel like everyone is my enemy," said Hermione softly, after he'd gotten settled. "I don't have a side in this war. There are Death Eaters who want to hurt me, there are Order members who want to hurt me. Everyone sees me as belonging to the 'other,' but I don't know who the 'other' is anymore."

"I know the feeling." He closed his eyes and hoped he wouldn't regret this conversation in the morning. "As a spy, it has been my job to play both sides, to straddle the middle, to allow Death Eaters and Order members alike to see me as both the enemy and an ally. In a war of light and dark, I exist in perpetual gray."

"I don't know where my loyalties lie anymore, Professor."

"With people rather than ideals, I suspect." He did not protest when she slipped her small hand in his under the blanket. "Like Narcissa, your concern for those you love is primary, and everything else secondary. The Dark Lord would not say so, but she is the sort to be feared – as are you. But he would never see it that way, for he cannot understand what it is to truly care about another person."

"He doesn't love my mother, but she needs to believe he does."

"Our fathers have a great deal in common." He squeezed her hand, then released it, and folded both of his over his abdomen. "Mine is dead now, but my mother spent my childhood refusing to see that he didn't love her. No one could love another person and treat them the way he did her, nor the way the Dark Lord has treated your mother."

Hermione rolled onto her side to face him, but he continued facing the ceiling. "She keeps saying he was different before. Before his fall. She says he was a different man then."

"In some ways, that's true. But he was only better at pretending to love her then. He never truly did." Severus grunted. "According to Albus, that is."

"I don't trust anything learned from Albus Dumbledore, thank you."

"He was wrong to want you drowned, but that doesn't mean he was wrong about everything." Severus opened his eyes, turned his head, and met her gaze. "You could pose a considerable threat to whichever side you wish to see fail. Albus Dumbledore was not wrong to realize you would grow into a powerful witch, given your parentage, but for a man who promoted love as much as he did, he seemed to overlook your mother's capacity for it, instead assuming that you'd be like your father, unable to feel it at all, and therefore without empathy or goodness."

"You think my mother is able to feel empathy and goodness?"

"I think your mother thinks what she does is good, yes. For the greater good. Everyone…" He averted his gaze back to the ceiling. "Everyone who can see beyond themselves thinks they're doing what's best for the greater good. Harry Potter is especially guilty of that. And the Dark Lord used it against him to lure him to the Ministry of Magic last summer. Your mother believes Muggles are monsters, unworthy of the magic they've stolen from witches and wizards, seeking only to subjugate the entire wizarding world by breeding out purebloods and giving magic to those who don't deserve it. She believes she's protecting her kind. She is able to dehumanize her adversaries in the same way Potter does by seeing all who don the Dark Mark as naught but evil creatures seeking to destroy all that is light and good. Bigots, monsters. You tried to tell him the truth, but he was unwilling to hear it. The truth is that monsters exist all around us. James Potter, Sirius Black, and Frank Longbottom were monsters, monsters who still give Narcissa nightmares, the forms her Boggarts take. To her, they are monsters. Meanwhile, to Neville Longbottom, _I_ am the monster." Severus scoffed. "He fears me most, according to Lupin, because I've been a little hard on him in class."

"You did threaten to kill his toad, once."

"I would have fixed the bloody toad before it disappeared entirely back into the tadpole stage."

"For Potter, the monsters are Dementors. For your mother, the monster is the guard who carried newborn you away from her in Azkaban, though her husband once frightened her too, and the Order members who beat her will never be forgotten. That said, she is the monster for countless others, one of the most feared witches ever to live. For you, the monster may be Dumbledore, or Lestrange, or your father, or your own self-doubts… Your own failure."

"I _am_ afraid to fail," she confessed. Prior to recent events, her nightmares as a child were mostly about a red-eyed man with snakes and getting a poor grade on a homework assignment. Her Boggart was Professor McGonagall saying she'd failed everything. "What are your monsters, sir?"

"No need to call me sir, Hermione. Outside lessons, Severus would suffice."

"Severus," she repeated, but it sounded foreign on her tongue. "What do you fear most, Severus?"

"Being a disappointment to my mother," he answered, but he would not expound on it, and soon the subject was changed. They talked awhile more, about nothing of great importance, and eventually fell asleep side by side.

She was glad not to be alone.


	25. REVEALED

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:**

 **REVEALED**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

It had been nearly seven months ago the last time – the only time – she awoke in the arms of her professor, and, that time, they'd ended up kissing.

She wondered if that would happen again.

If it could.

She snuggled closer to him.

"No," he mumbled, half-asleep. "Your mind is an open book. A loud one. I know what you're thinking. And the answer is no. You're too young for me."

"I'm an adult. Sixteen is the age of consent in the English Muggle world, and seventeen is the age of adulthood in the European wizarding world, and I'm nearly eighteen."

"I'm twice your age."

"My father is twice my mother's age."

He knew this wasn't accurate, but didn't bother correcting her math.

"I don't aspire to be like your father." His eyes were still closed. He rolled onto his back and she moved with him, resting her head on the center of his chest. He didn't embrace her, but didn't push her away either. Why did she have to smell so bloody good? _Women_.

"I've been kissed before," she offered, as if that would sweeten the pot. "Not only by you, but by others. Viktor Krum."

"And?"

"And… and he touched me too."

"That must have been quite the experience for him." Severus gingerly lifted her head off his chest, then rolled onto his other side, facing away from her. "I'm sleeping."

"I'm not a child."

"Of course not." He pulled the blanket up higher to cover his shoulder. He could get up, but he was warm and comfortable and it was probably only five or six in the morning; he could do with more sleep.

She wrapped an arm around his waist and snuggled up against his back.

"You slept with my cousin Tonks when she was a student."

"That was a one-time lapse in judgment. A mistake."

"You did it more than once." She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades. "For a year, or more."

"A one-time lapse in judgement that was mistakenly repeated several times."

"You saved me last night. He would have… he would have done to me what they did to my aunt."

"I know."

"You saved me. I owe you. As thanks."

"If you wish to thank me, make me a card," he said dryly. "Have your mother owl it to my home. Receiving mail is always a nice surprise."

"Do you think I'm a woman?"

"I don't think you're a genderless giant sea slug."

"You've kissed me before. More than once."

"Yes." He rolled back onto his back and allowed her to again place her head on his chest. "I shouldn't have. Your mother is more formidable than Nymphadora's. Andromeda only threatened to ruin my career for bedding her daughter. Bellatrix would castrate me."

"You're afraid of my mummy?" she asked, in a teasing tone.

"Not afraid."

"You sound afraid."

He opened his eyes and moved to face her, his right hand on her left bicep under the blankets.

"I am no coward, but I am also not mad. I realize you are of age, but you are also seventeen-"

"Nearly eighteen."

"And I am twice your age. You have been held more or less a captive for over a year, which can impact the way a person thinks, and as a result I believe you see me as something greater than I am."

"You're the only one who understands me, Professor. You understand how it is to exist between two sides, to not have a true place."

He tried to remain impassive, but she caught the momentary glimmer in his eyes.

"You know I'm right," she whispered. "We're the same, you and me."

"We're not the same," he said quietly, but he glanced down at her lips, and moved a little closer.

"I can trust you in a way I can't anyone else." She brought her hand up to his cheek, brushing back his hair.

"I've told you before, you cannot trust me." He released her bicep, moving his palm to her hip instead.

"But I need to." Her whisper was more insistent now. "I need to know there's someone else like me, someone who feels trapped between two warring factions, someone who exists in the middle. Someone who's neither asking nor expecting anything from me." She dropped her voice even lower. "Someone I can talk to. Someone who'll let me share my secrets."

"You can talk to me." He leaned closer. "I'll keep your secrets."

Their lips were but a whisper apart when the sound of the cell door opening propelled them to opposite sides of the bed, staring guiltily up at the ceiling, their hearts beating far too fast.

"Only me," said the tired sounding voice of Narcissa. "Good morning. Hermione, get dressed. The Dark Lord would like to see you in the parlor."

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

Narcissa and Severus were sat across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and eating a light breakfast of toast and fruit. Lucius was still asleep, Bellatrix was in the parlor with Hermione and the Dark Lord, and Narcissa had sent the house-elves up to cater personally to Draco, leaving her and her friend on their own.

"I don't understand how he got in there," said Severus for the sixth time since they'd sat down. "It should have been impossible."

"I left the cell door unlocked," confessed Narcissa, who was shredding the crust of her toast. She didn't look at him. "That's how."

Severus sighed into his mug. "On purpose?"

"Not _not_ on purpose."

His eyes narrowed. "You put her in danger."

Narcissa seemed surprised, almost even insulted, but this notion, even though it should have been obvious.

"I did no such thing! I was giving her the opportunity to get away. To escape. If she… wanted to. It was for her own good!"

"Narcissa, _you put her in danger_."

"Rodolphus wasn't supposed to have returned for days!" She stood, putting her coffee mug down with such force hot liquid sloshed over the side, burning her thumb, which she immediately pressed upon the cold side of her juice glass. "Ow! You know, Severus, prior to the Lestranges escape from Azkaban, I left Hermione's cell unlocked at night at least a dozen times, and she was never in–"

"You've left her cell unlocked a dozen times?" Now he was standing too. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"What is wrong with me? I could ask you the same. How many nights have you spent in her bed?"

"Only two, and nothing happened." He wasn't about to let her turn this around and make it about him. "But what do you think would have happened, had she escaped? To her? To her mother?" He glared down at her. "To you."

Narcissa tossed her hair haughtily, looking very much like her sister, with her little nose in the air.

"I think she would have had more power over her own life, that's what I think! She might have stayed. She might have gone to speak with her mother. She might have come to ask me why I didn't lock it. She might have Flooed to Diagon Alley and turned us all in. She might have walked out the front door and kept walking until she reached a Muggle village in which to start a new life. I don't know what she would have done – but it would have been her choice!"

"She-"

"Additionally, it has, in some way, shown _us_ her true loyalties."

He cocked an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"I've left her cell unlocked over a dozen times, and she's never once realized. Do you know what that means?"

"She's unobservant?"

"She's not trying to escape!"

"True…" He settled back in his chair, rested his elbows on the table, and pressed his palms against his temples. "I wonder why that is. She has been wandless, but I know she's also been practicing wandless magic, and gotten quite good, considering. Impressively good, in actuality. Her performance in the duel against Draco notwithstanding."

"She could have taken my wand when I was asleep beside her. I don't believe she ever tried."

"Nor did she go for mine."

Narcissa sat too. She reached for her mug and tapped her wand to the side in a nonverbal warming charm.

"Have you… been with her?" she asked, a tad too casually.

"You're asking if I've deflowered your niece?" He kept his face neutral, but the defensiveness in his tone gave him away.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Is it so unthinkable? You deflowered my other niece, did you not?"

"Nymphadora wasn't a virgin," he replied curtly. "If anything, she was a slag. There are prostitutes who've had fewer partners. I hardly took advantage of the girl. The _woman_."

He was a bit sensitive when it came to this subject. He knew better than to shag the students, even without having to harken back to that warning from Minerva, and though she hadn't been his only inappropriate sexual partner, she was the only student and the only one with whom it happened countless times in multiple locations, continuing after she left school. He tried to mentally justify his behavior by reminding himself they weren't scandalously far apart in age, she had approached him (and been turned down twice), he never once looked at her when she was underage… and she hadn't been a virgin.

Additionally, as much as he hated it, her marriage and pregnancy had done something to him.

It bothered him.

It bothered him on a deep level he'd not have expected.

He supposed it was because of her choice for a partner. Happy Ending for the werewolf, who did not deserve one, but he'd hardly ever had a witch even look his way, save for Charity Burbage, and she didn't count. (Now she was dead.)

Hermione. He was attracted to the girl – to the young woman – he couldn't deny it. But he knew she felt no true attraction to him. She was lonely, locked up, confused. He didn't want to be the greatest mistake of her life… as he'd apparently been to Tonks, according to the most recent letter from her mother.

"I do not disapprove, Severus." Narcissa reached across the table and took his hand, which he allowed, though his entire body stiffened. He was not keen to have this conversation, nor did he want her comforting touch. Her tone was gentle when she spoke his name.

"Severus?"

He forced himself to make eye contact.

"When I was Hermione's age, I needed Lucius. I felt quite alone in the world, and he was the first like-minded person I'd met outside my family. I realize that likely sounds difficult to believe, given our social circle, but he and I connected over all sorts of things I'd never been able to talk to anyone else about before. I was insecure, but felt I had to hide it, that it would bring shame upon my family for anyone to know I had such crippling self-doubt." Her free hand went up to scratch above her collar. "I never felt I'd never be anything but pretty, and I was terrified my looks would fade and I'd be left with nothing and no one. That was my greatest fear, at seventeen years of age! And he understood. He thought he would never measure up to Abraxas' high standards, that he'd never amount to anything more than a man of inherited wealth and undeserved privilege, but otherwise be a failure."

"May we all fail so greatly."

(Narcissa ignored this.)

"He wanted to earn respect in his own right, to have influence over others, to invest wisely, to be admired for who he is instead of for all he has – all he didn't have to earn."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"No one understood me like Lucius. He made me feel like I wasn't alone. He offered both reassurance and understanding, but never told me I was wrong or ridiculous to feel the way I did. We were in a uniquely similar position… as you and Hermione are."

"I'm quite certain I do not know what you mean by that."

"You know precisely what I mean by that." She squeezed his hand and dropped her voice, just in case. "You and I and Lucius and Hermione – we currently exist in a dangerous gray space between the light and dark."

"This discussion is more dangerous than-"

"It's alright." She patted the back of his hand and then pulled away. She cradled her mug in both hands, warming them. Her hands were like ice, as usual. She was always cold. "It's alright if you and she want to help each other feel less alone. No one wants to feel alone."

"I don't think your sister would approve of your encouragement."

"Add it to the list of things we'll not be sharing with her." Narcissa's face took on a look of melancholy. "She supports the Dark Lord with the whole of her soul, Severus. You didn't see her that day in January, after he beat her. Beat her, like a common Muggle, like a pathetic, weak, battered…" Catching his hardened expression, she broke off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that women whose husbands do that are weak… I was not referring to women like your mother."

"Think nothing of it."

"He'd struck her several times, Severus!" Narcissa's heart hurting remembering that morning, comforting her injured, broken-hearted sister. "Her face was swollen. She felt ashamed. She was like me after… you know."

"I know."

"Lucius doesn't know." She dropped her voice again, this time to just above a whisper. "About me, that is. All these years and he doesn't know. I never want him to know."

"And I've never agreed with your decision to keep it from him."

"Severus–"

"Narcissa." Now he was the one reaching out to take her hand, which he held between both of his own. "I've never known a man to love his wife the way Lucius does you. You should not have had to suffer alone all this time. As you said yourself, 'no one wants to feel alone.'"

"I'm not alone. I have you."

"And you want me to 'have' Hermione."

"I think you can be of comfort to her. And she to you. A help. A friend. A compan-"

"She's seventeen."

"Of age. And nearly eighteen. Her mother was married by-"

"And we want her to end up like her mother?"

Narcissa scowled. "I'm not pushing you on the girl, Severus."

"No, only giving me permission, as if she's the last biscuit in the tin and you want me to feel comfortable being the one to indulge."

"Not like a _biscuit_." She pulled her hand away, slapped his lightly, and reached for her coffee. "And it isn't as though you haven't had your hand in the tin yet. I've caught you in bed with-"

"Platonically."

"Unrelated adults do not share a bed 'platonically.'"

He smirked. "Don't they? You and I have. Or was that not platonic? Were you trying to seduce me all that time, and I failed to noti-"

"Continue needling me and I'll never invite you into my bed again," she teased.

Before he could quip back, the door swung open then and in walked Lucius, looking like he hadn't slept in days (or shaved in a week).

"Good morning," he said groggily.

"Morning," replied Severus.

"Lucius!" Narcissa leapt up. "You've arrived just in time, my love. Wicked Severus has been trying to seduce me into his bed, but thus far I've resisted his advances."

"Tut, tut. Severus, what have I told you about that?" Lucius mock-scolded him. He settled into the chair beside Narcissa and Accioed over a mug and the coffee pot. "Married women aren't worth your time. Surely you can find a sweet, innocent young virgin to corrupt instead."

Narcissa winked at Severus. "Just what _I_ was telling him."

Severus rolled his eyes.

The Malfoys were made for each other.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1971**

 **(twenty-six years ago)**

In May, he'd Summoned her alone for the first time. It had been two in the morning, she'd been in bed beside her husband of a year, and she'd made it quite clear she wasn't sorry to have been called to him in the middle of the night.

She'd had the Dark Mark burned into her arm shortly after finishing school. She was, at the time, the youngest to ever be Marked, and he hadn't even required her to kill first. Though she had done so since. She was twenty years and two months old, working at Borgin and Burkes, and willing to do whatever he asked of her.

This morning, for the first time since May, he was Summoning her alone.

"Aren't you the special one?" snapped Rodolphus, upon realizing he was not being called with her. "Are you fucking him? If you're fucking him, Bellatrix, Merlin help me, I'll-"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said dismissively, not waiting to hear what her husband would do, but the truth was, she wished she was. The Dark Lord had even asked her last time what she would do if he wanted to. She'd said she'd consent, of course. She was more than willing.

"Bellatrix, if-"

"Stop and think about what you're asking me, Rodolphus. You think the Dark Lord – the DARK LORD – is summoning me for sex?" Her lip curled in disgust, not at the notion of going to bed with their master, but at the realization Rodolphus thought exactly this for the very worst reason.

"You think I have nothing better to offer him than my body."

He shrugged.

"You think he has no use for my talents?"

"I think, if he's seeking a use for your 'talents,' he'd have better luck asking you to translate Ancient Runes for him than asking you to bed."

"So which is it, then? He's bedding me, or I'm bad in bed?"

Rodolphus sneered. "Can't it be both?"

"Sod off." She hurried to her wardrobe, seeking an appropriate (but borderline _inappropriate_ ) corset and skirt. She dressed hurriedly after snapping her fingers for a house-elf to come do up her laces. She slipped her feet into strappy high-heels, as they showed off yesterday's pedicure, and she quickly fluffed out her wild hair, not bothering to try to comb it. She applied lipstick and mascara in a hurry, then popped a mint into her mouth. The Mark burned again, this time painfully. He was growing impatient, but what could he expect? It was just after dawn. He didn't want her to apparate to his side in her pale pink pajamas with green crust in the corners of her eyes and horrible morning breath, did he?

"Hurry back," said Rodolphus nastily. "Oh, and as a word of caution: if you're unfaithful to me, bitch, they'll never find your body."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

Andromeda puffed her cigarette and stared down at the kitchen table, unable to look at her daughter.

"How long have you known?"

"Since June." Nymphadora scowled, defensive. "I know what you're thinking. We didn't marry because I'm pregnant. I didn't trap him. It just… happened."

"It just happened? How does that 'just happen' Nymphadora? You've forgotten our chat about how babies are made? You couldn't afford birth control? Or did you only have access to the potion for as long as you were shagging the professor?"

"That's low, Mum."

"I'm not happy about this. You've _known_ since June? Or you _became pregnant_ in June?"

"Both."

"Both." Andromeda furiously stubbed out what was left of her fag into the wood of the table, then lit another. "I don't know why you insist upon ruining your own life, Nymphadora, when there-"

"It's my life, and it's not ruined! I love Remus. He loves me."

"He's a werewolf."

"And _you_ married a Mudblood. Are you going to cast me out the way your parents did to you?"

"Of course not." Andromeda sneered. "But what if his condition is passed to the child?"

"Then I'll love my little lycanthropic child the way you did your little Metamorph."

"The two conditions are not the same."

"You wouldn't love me if I were a werewolf?"

Andromeda's eyes opened wider, revealing the fear she tried so hard to keep hidden. "I don't want you to have to live life as a werewolf. That's why I don't want you to live with a werewolf. What if he bites you? Turns you like him? Bites your child? He can't be controlled. He's an anima-"

"He's no more an animal than an Animagus! You know how Daddy admires Animagi."

(One of Ted's dreams had been to be an Animagus, but he'd never managed more than a brown fluffy tail and two long floppy ears, and had eventually given up.)

"We're in the middle of a war."

Nymphadora snorted. "You had me in the middle of a war."

"I was stupid."

"Still are."

"Watch it." Andromeda pointed her wand in Nymphadora's direction, not that she'd ever use magic against her daughter. "You'll respect me in my home or you'll leave my home. You and your werewolf."

"Remus will be here soon, Mum. Bill and Fleur's wedding is today. Please, when he arrives, control yourself."

"I need to wake your father." Andromeda stood and vanished her soft-boiled eggs, her appetite gone. She went to the door.

"I know you cheat on him."

Andromeda froze in the doorway, her back to the kitchen.

"Excuse me?"

"Daddy. He's being cuckolded, isn't he?"

"Archaic word choice. Did you learn that one from your werewolf?"

Nymphadora glared at her mother's back, her eyes boring into the woman's spine like lasers. "I know you sleep around, Mother. You have a reputation. And I know you've been with Kingsley."

Andromeda turned slowly, her face expressionless.

"Kingsley told you?"

"He told Jenkins, who told Mahmoud, who told Chambers, who told me."

She snorted derisively. "I suppose there's a reason he's an Auror and not an Unspeakable."

"Does Daddy know he married a whore?"

"Whores get paid for sex, dear girl." She took a drag of the cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. "I am unfaithful to your father for free."

"Treat Remus with respect when he arrives. Tell him you're happy about the baby. Or I may get so upset I'll let it slip to Daddy that-"

"Do you exist solely to antagonize me, Nymphadora?"

"If you wanted a more devoted daughter, Mummy, you should have given me a name I wouldn't hate."

"My apologies, _Tonks_."

"I'm happier with the name Daddy gave me than the one you did. I honestly do not understand how the two of you ended up together. _He_ likes Remus. _He_ doesn't care about the lycanthropy. _He's_ happy I'm happy. He's going to love being a grandparent, he won't–"

Andromeda held up her hand, a nonverbal call for silence.

"Don't you ever get tired of this, Nymphadora? We've been fighting since you learn to speak. Your first word was 'no' and your first full sentence was, 'Mumma, I _said_ no!' I'm exhausted. I'm done. You want to be married to a werewolf, fine. You want to have his baby? Do it. You want that baby _now_ , as we're headed into what may be the worst war the wizarding world has experienced in centuries? It's your choice."

"You're-"

"You want to tell your father I'm a whore? Go right ahead. But I wasn't the one who had an affair when I was pregnant with you. I'm not the one who walked out and didn't return until you were two months old. I'm not the one who–"

"Daddy wouldn't have done those things!" Nymphadora looked horrified. "You're a liar!"

"Ask him!" snapped Andromeda. She tossed the cigarette into the sink and turned again to leave, but walked right into her husband, who was bleary-eyed and still in pajamas.

"What's this?" asked Ted. "I heard shouting."

"Mum – _Mother_ – says you had an affair when she was pregnant with me!"

He looked to his wife. "Why would you tell her that?"

"She pushed me, Ted. She never lets up, she's always–"

"Mum slept with my colleague from the Auror office, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Recently. Here, in our home!"

Andromeda's eyes narrowed. "Thank you, Nymphadora."

"Oh." Ted seemed surprisingly unconcerned. "Recently?"

"In June," answered Andromeda.

"You're still seeing him, then?"

"No. It was a one-off."

"I see." He gently moved her aside because she was blocking his path to the refrigerator. "Did you buy orange juice yesterday? I told you we were out."

"Yes, it's behind the milk."

"Excellent."

"You're not upset? Daddy! She _cheated_ on you! And then she accused you of–"

"You're not a little girl anymore, Tonks." Catching the sharp look from his wife, who hated when he called her that, he corrected: " _Nymphadora_. You're a married woman now. And as your marriage… progresses… and you gain both age and wisdom, you'll learn that people are imperfect. Your mother is imperfect."

"An understatement," muttered Tonks.

"As am I. We have both been unfaithful."

Andromeda smiled smugly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Daddy? No, you couldn't have been."

"Yes, I was. I have been. I had an affair before you were born. When I realized I was going to be a parent…" He took out the orange juice and grabbed a glass. "I left. We'd been married only a short while, and we were young, and I panicked. Not my finest six months. I returned, she took me back, and I've always regretted it, leaving, missing your birth. Now, we have an understanding. Anyone else we see we keep to ourselves, and we always come back to each other." He kissed Andromeda on the cheek. "I wish the two of you wouldn't fight so much. You're more alike than you are different."

"Daddy…" Nymphadora felt like crying. All of the anger she'd been directing at her mother mere moments ago dissipated, leaving her with the overwhelming sense of confusion and hurt.

"Nymphadora has news, Ted." Andromeda took his juice from his hand and sipped before handing it back. "You may need to sit down."

He sat.

Andromeda leaned against the counter. "Go on, then, Nymphadora."

Nymphadora tried to smile.

"Daddy… Remus and I… we're having a baby."

"A baby?" Ted's face broke into a grin. He set down the orange juice and jumped up from his chair. "Already? We're going to be grandparents."

"Yes," said Andromeda. Dryly, she added, "And we're delighted about it."

"Yes! Yes, we are!" He hurried to the other side of the table to embrace his daughter. "Congratulations!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

The Dark Lord stared discerningly down at his daughter, who was seated on the couch in the parlor. She sat primly, straight-backed, with her hands folded in her lap, every bit the ideal student, having assumed he'd requested her presence to teach her something. She even looked the part today, in her Hogwarts uniform skirt and an old Slytherin shirt borrowed from Draco.

By the fireplace stood Bellatrix, who looked anxious and confused. She was fiddling with a loose string on her cuff, her eyes darting back and forth between her lover and her child. The fact that she looked anxious was making Hermione anxious.

"Rodolphus Lestrange was attacked last night, Hermione."

Hermione clasped her hands so tightly together her knuckles started to go white.

"He could not remember when, how… who. Do _you_ remember?"

"I…" Hermione glanced at her mother. Severus had said they shouldn't tell her, shouldn't tell anyone.

"My dear girl, I hope you are not contemplating lying to your father."

"Of course not, sir." But that's exactly what Hermione had been contemplating.

"You think _she_ attacked him, my Lord?" Bellatrix laughed, but Hermione could tell she was still nervous. "Absurd. She's a child. And he-"

"Hush, please, Bella." He knelt on the floor before Hermione and took her hands between his. "As I've told you, Hermione, I know nothing of being a father, as I did not have one from whom I could learn. But your mother assures me among the chief duties of a parent are the safety and emotional well-being of the child, which requires honest communication on both sides. Isn't that right, Bella?"

She blinked back her surprise. "Ye… yes, my Lord."

"Tom," he corrected. "When we three are alone, you may address me as Tom."

Bellatrix's heavy-lidded eyes widened. Was he serious, or was this simply part of his plan to bring Hermione to their side, his new approach to gaining her loyalty? She suspected the latter, but hoped beyond hope it meant he was finally prepared to view them as some form of a family.

"Tom," she said softly. "Yes, the child's safety and emotional well-being are of great importance, as is open communication."

"We take care of those for whom we care, don't we, Bella?"

"Yes, my… Tom."

"Your mother cares about your safety and emotional well-being, dear girl. And I believe you care about hers."

"Yes, sir." Hermione cleared her throat. "Father."

"I have long cared about hers. And after a year of mistakes, I am now learning the ways in which I can attend to yours."

"Yes, Father," she said, but she had no idea where this was going.

"Many, many years ago, before you were born, your mother came to me battered. She'd been assaulted by her husband, and her marriage contract prevented her from using magic against him, even in self-defense. You remember that night, Bella?"

"Yes." She broke the dangling string off her cuff and twisted it around her index finger. "Rodolphus was indifferent to me before we married, and unkind to me after."

"And I took care of you, did I not?"

"You did." She smiled slightly, her expression softening. "You made it clear to him that he was never to hurt me again. Not to touch me. You kept me safe. You said you'd…" Her smile floundered a little as she remembered what had happened when she angered him in January. "You said you'd never hurt me in that way. You said wizards were above beating women and you had no patience for those who behaved like Muggles in the home. Men like Snape's father, McGonagall's first husband, Dolohov… and Rodolphus. Weak, pathetic, angry men who take out their frustrations and insecurities on women."

"Precisely." The Dark Lord smiled, but his was not the handsome smile it had been before his fall – before the Horcruxes. Still, he hoped it would put the girl somewhat at ease.

"I… my adoptive Muggle parents were against domestic violence, too, sir." She wasn't sure why she said that. It just came out.

"And we are eternally grateful to them for doing their best at raising you," said Bellatrix hurriedly. "Aren't we, my Lo- Tom?"

"We are. I have no issues with the existence of Muggles, you understand, Hermione. And I am aware that there are good ones, fine parents, hard workers, decent citizens. I simply do not believe we should be subjugated by them or in hiding as if afraid of them, nor am I in favor of sharing our magic with them, educating their children in our schools, or allowing them to steal what is rightfully ours, but that is another issue for another day."

"Yes, sir."

"Hermione." He squeezed her hands gently. His were freezing. Hers were sweating. "Go on, now. Tell your mother what happened to Rodolphus. Tell us why you hurt him. You should be truthful with us. You're not in trouble."

This word choice made her flinch. It reminded her of one of her earliest demonstrations of involuntary magic, when she'd hurt another child at the playground without even touching him. He'd been teasing her, and she'd screwed up her nose and wished he'd fall flat on his ugly face, and, moments later, he'd tripped, landed badly, and bloodied his nose.

 _"Did you push him?" her father had asked. "Was he hurting you? You can tell us the truth. You're not in trouble."_

"I… I threw a knife at Rodolphus," said Hermione. She stared down at their hands, her fathers and hers, and wondered if they'd ever resembled each other – perhaps, before his fall, when he was handsome (according to her mother).

"You threw it?"

"I threw it. I had it… it was hidden under my mattress, in my cell. For protection. Because I'm wandless, and weak from being locked up. My muscles are half-atrophied."

"She needs more than swimming twice per week," Bellatrix started, but the Dark Lord shook his head slightly, silencing her.

"Go on, Hermione. About Rodolphus."

"He'd gotten into my cell. He… he tried to… he attacked me. And Sev… Professor Snape, he arrived, and hexed him, and Rodolphus was fighting back, so I picked up the knife, and…"

"He _attacked_ you?" All of the anxiousness was gone from Bellatrix's demeanor, replaced by hot fury. "I'll kill him. Where is he? I want him dead!"

"He will be punished," said the Dark Lord. He stood. "The Obliviation performed by Severus was weak enough for me to break through. I saw memories Rodolphus does not even know he has." He snapped his fingers, and from behind the sofa rose the limp, stupified body of Rodolphus Lestrange. Hermione gasped. Bellatrix reached for her wand.

"No, Bella. I will enervate him. We'll have a talk. And then…" He smiled at Hermione and flicked his wrist, sending Rodolphus crashing to the floor. "It shall be up to you to punish him. Whether it be with a lecture, a hex, or the Killing Curse is entirely up to you."

"I…" Hermione dug her fingernails into her knees. "I could _kill_ him? You mean… metaphorically, or…?"

The Dark Lord shook his head. "We'll talk, give him the chance to explain himself, and then – when he's through – you'll punish him in whatever way you see fit. Bellatrix, please hand our daughter your wand."

Hermione took with it with a trembling hand. She did not question why she was being given this wand and not her own. She stood and stared down upon his scarred, awkwardly positioned body. He was pathetic. Ugly. Vile. He'd tried to rape her in the Ministry last year. He'd abused her defenseless mother. He'd wanted to do to them what Longbottom and Black and Potter had done to her auntie – and he'd probably done that to Alice Longbottom, too. Then he'd come at her again last night. He was a worthless, wicked, wretched man.

He would be allowed to explain himself.

And then she'd be allowed to do to him whatever she wanted.

 _Whatever she wanted._

Hermione's wand hand steadied. She felt sick and scared and ever-so-slightly… excited.

"Enervate him," she ordered the Dark Lord. "Let's see what he has to say for himself."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **28 July, 1997**

 **(four days ago)**

Harry Potter, Hagrid, and Ted were not happy to see a wanted criminal enter the home, to say the least. And they were shocked into silence to see her companion.

"How did you get in here?" demanded Nymphadora, wand aimed directly at the heart of her aunt.

"Your safe house protection has a flaw. It allows blood relatives to pass through the barriers." Bellatrix smiled. "Andromeda, dear, nice to see you again."

"Likewise," said Andromeda politely. "Hermione, you're looking well. I see you've borrowed an ensemble from your mother. Were my daughter's jeans and t-shirts not to your liking?"

"Not appropriate for this," said Bellatrix, who'd chosen the long, black dress with the cutout shoulders and corset-style bodice for the girl. "We were out in your garden." She jerked her head toward the Melting Clocks painting on the wall. "You must have known."

"I wasn't worried."

"I don't understand what's going on. Mother, have you been in contact with her?"

"Not now, Nymphadora."

"Hermione!" shouted Harry, finally finding his voice. "I knew you were alive! I knew it! I told everyone I saw you in the tower the night Snape killed Dumbledore, I said I saw you and heard you speak, I knew it was you, that you were with _her_ , and they said I was mad! She's been keeping you prisoner?" He whipped out his wand and directed it at Bellatrix. "Stupi-"

"Expelliarmus!" said Hermione, her reflexes too quick for him. His wand flew from his hand. Bellatrix caught it with ease. "Listen, Harry…"

"What are you doing? Hermione! I could have Stunned her!"

"Not really," said Hermione. "She'd have you dead on the floor before you finished the word. But listen, Harry, I'm glad to see you. There's so much I've learned this year, so much you need to know!"

"Hermione!" Hagrid finally seemed able to shake himself out of shock. He rushed forward to hug her, but Bellatrix hit him with a wordless hex that stopped him mid-step.

"No closer to the girl," she said. "Any of you!"

"We can take her, Hermione," said Harry insistently. "There are more of us. We can protect you."

"I don't need your protection, Harry. As I said in the tower, Bellatrix is my mother. I'm in no danger with her. But I've been wanting to speak with you. Dumbledore, he's not the man we thought he was."

"He didn't want you killed as a baby, Hermione. I heard what you said in the tower, but I know he didn't. There's some explanation, some other-"

"You heard him confess to it! He wanted me drowned!"

"It was a mistake, then. He said it himself, he didn't know what sort of person you'd grow up to be, and with evil parents-"

"They're not evil, though, that's just it, Harry!"

"They're – what?"

"Well my father might be, that's… I don't know… he probably is…" She shrugged this off. "But my mother, Bellatrix…" Hermione glanced at her. "She's not at all evil, Harry. Like Dumbledore, she's an entirely different person than we were led to believe. I've learned so much since I've been staying with her, and-"

"She tortured Neville's parents into insanity! You saw them at St. Mungo's! You know what she did to them!"

"She told them not to hurt his mother!" insisted Hermione.

Bellatrix's eyes shifted quickly, but only Andromeda caught the 'tell.'

"And Neville's father deserved it! He was a monster, Harry, he-"

"How could you say that about Neville?" bellowed Harry, going quite purple faced.

"Not Neville! His father! Neville doesn't know about his father, just as you don't know about yours, and about Sirius-"

"Not too much information, Hermione," said Bellatrix in a warning tone.

"My point is that there's evil on all sides, Harry. People do evil things all the time. They may be evil people, they may not, but they do evil things and always have what they see as justification for their evil. Neville's father didn't see what he was doing as evil, but it was. And you see what my mother did to him as evil because you don't know why she did it! Dumbledore has done countless good things for the wizarding world, but he also ordered the murder of a newborn baby because of who her parents were, while offering protection to your mum and dad and the Longbottoms and their babies even though you and Neville were the children of people who'd done evil things, too!"

"You're not making sense, Hermione," said Nymphadora. "Are you telling us Frank Longbottom and the Potters were evil?"

"I am saying that Frank Longbottom and Harry's father did awful, unspeakable, unforgivable things – and Sirius too, he was the worst – but they're lauded as heroes because their side won, while my mother only did what she did for the good of her sister, and she was imprisoned for it, called mad, labeled an incurable criminal, and she had stolen from her only child, to be murdered!"

"Have you been brainwashing her?" asked Nymphadora, shooting daggers at her aunt Bellatrix with her eyes. "What nonsense have you filled her head-"

"It's not nonsense!" Hermione stomped her foot. "I saw memories in the Penseive! I saw when Order members abducted my mother. They tortured her for hours, but she wouldn't give them information. Dumbledore arrived and acted as though she was the one in the wrong, not them! And then my father, the Dark Lord, came to rescue her, and-"

"You call him the Dark Lord?"

"What should I call him?" asked Hermione testily. "Dad?"

"Come with us, Harry," said Bellatrix, reaching out a hand. "Just as Hermione has learned much this year, the Dark Lord has, too. He realizes he's been wrong, as far as you're concerned. He was not trying to harm you tonight, but to capture you, to force you to sit down and speak with him. His methods are unorthodox, but he knew you'd not come if asked. The Dark Lord wants us all to work together. To fight a common enemy." Bellatrix smiled in a way she hoped seemed inviting, not intimidating. "Hermione has helped him see the value in you, dear boy. And we hope to help you see the value in him."

"We have no common enemy," snarled Harry. "And I have no interest in sitting down for a chat with your 'Dark Lord.' Unlike Hermione, my mind isn't weak enough to be warped in that madman's favor!"

"Weak?!" Hermione looked highly insulted.

Her mother wore a similar expression.

"Madman?!"

"I'll have you know, Harry Potter, I am not weak! A weak mind clamps down on what it thinks it knows and refuses to expand when presented with new information. That's what a brainwashed person does, that's what you're doing! You've always been this way. You refuse to see more than one side to things. First year, you thought Severus was evil because he wanted the Defense job and didn't speak well of your father, but he was the one helping to keep you alive when Quirrell wanted you dead! Second year you thought Draco was evil and had opened the Chamber of Secrets just because he's a self-aggrandizing Slytherin, even though he's not that bad at all! Third year, you thought-"

"Snape and Malfoy _are_ evil! And we call them Snape and Malfoy, Hermione, not Severus and Draco."

"Come with us, Harry. Let us introduce you to Hermione's father," said Bellatrix, moving two paces closer to the boy. Andromeda stepped between them and shook her head slightly.

"You've lost your mind, Hermione!" shouted Harry. "You've gone mad!"

"I have _not_ gone mad! And I don't think the Dark Lord is a decent person, to be clear. He killed Cedric Diggory. I haven't forgotten! But your father-"

"You'll not say one word against my father!" Harry shifted, and now his wand was pointed at Hermione instead of Bellatrix.

"Your father was a rapist, Harry! Him and Longbottom and Sirius Black! They once abducted and abused my mother, which was bad enough, but before that they'd broken into Malfoy Manor when my pregnant aunt was home with her baby, and they-"

"You take that back!" Harry sent a stinging hex in Hermione's direction, which she deflected with ease.

"They broke her wand and they-"

"Lies!" Harry tried to disarm her, but she used a nonverbal Protego to block him.

"There is no good or bad, Harry, but thinking makes it so! That's Shakespeare. It means-"

"I don't care what it means!"

"There's no good or evil in and of itself, Harry, but what we think of it is good or evil. You think my mother is evil for having tortured Frank Longbottom, but I know what Frank did to make her want him to hurt, and he deserved it, and-"

 _"You're saying Neville's father deserved it! What she did to him? She's a monster, Hermione!"_

"She's not! He's a monster, Harry! If only you had all the information-"

 _"They've brainwashed you, they've tricked you, your mind is warped-"_

"My mind is as clear as it's ever been! I see the bigger picture now, I see that we-"

 _"They've lied to you! My father wouldn't – he would never! He was a good man!"_

"He was a bully at Hogwarts! He and Sirius loved to torment Severus, and-"

 _"Snape probably deserved it! He was always obsessed with the Dark Arts, and-"_

"Sirius raped his own cousin! While your despicable father stood and watched!"

 _"That's a lie! Sirius was – you knew Sirius! You knew how he was!"_

"Cruel to house elves and worse to women!"

 _"Kreacher was a shit elf and Sirius never raped anybody!"_

"He did! They all did! They took turns with Narcissa!" Hermione let out a small scream of frustration. "They threatened and beat her-"

 _"My father was a hero, everyone says so! He defied Voldemort three times-"_

"Did he 'defy' him, or did he anger him by torturing his followers, like my mother?"

Harry was getting angrier and angrier. He looked as though he might explode. _"You used to be the smartest girl I knew, Hermione! They've broken you!"_

"They've opened my eyes, Harry! Yet you refuse to open yours!"

 _"They've filled your head with lies to turn you against Dumbledore and the Order!"_

"They've filled your head with stories so you'll think the wrong people are heroes!"

 _"If they did torture your mother, good! Dumbledore ought to have ordered her killed instead of you! If Sirius was going to rape his cousin, he should have started with her!"_

At that, a furious burst of blue flames shot from Hermione's non-wand hand, hitting Harry square in the chest and knocking him backward, against the wall; the impact of it sent his wand flying. She was shaking, seething. How could he not see the truth? How could he not understand that good and evil existed on both sides? How could he say anything as heinous as suggesting her mother ought to have been violated like that?

Had he always been this way?

Was he just like his father?"

In response to the blue flames, both Nymphadora and Ted again turned their wands on Hermione and Bellatrix, but Andromeda blocked her sister and niece from her daughter and husband.

"This is going well," said Bellatrix sarcastically. "Let me call my daughter's father. He'll sort it out."

She pressed the tip of her wand to the Dark Mark on her exposed forearm.

"NO!" shouted Harry. He scrambled across the room in search of his wand, but doubled over from pain in his scar. Bellatrix was Summoning him. He was coming. But the house was hidden. He couldn't get through. And he was angry. Harry could feel his anger. He managed to straighten, hardly able to see.

"You're not one of us anymore, Hermione!" he shouted. Though wandless, he added, "Stupify!"

"Protego!" said Bellatrix lazily, protecting them from the weak wandless magic he'd managed.

"Everyone thought you were dead!" screamed Harry, completely unhinged now. "I said they were wrong. I wish they were right!"

"Harry!" gasped Hagrid. "You don' mean that!"

"She's one of them now, Hagrid!" Harry choked back a sob. "Our Hermione is gone!"

Hermione grabbed Bellatrix's wrist. "Mother, please, I want to go home."

Bellatrix nodded at Andromeda.

"Until next time, little sister."

"In the future, try not to drop in without first receiving an invitation," said Andromeda. "We've discussed this."

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Then she wrapped an arm around her daughter's waist, and they disapparated.

Gone.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

"This tosser, Potter," said Draco, glaring at the young man's face on the cover of the latest Quibbler. "Stupid scar, stupid face. Who sent this to me? I don't subscribe to rubbish."

"A secret admirer?" guessed Lucius. "You were a bit obsessed by him when you were younger. We worried."

"You didn't!" Draco gagged. "Father!"

"We were _not_ worried," said Narcissa. She had finished ripping her toast into tiny pieces and was now eating the rest of her fruit while her husband tucked into his eggs. Draco had taken breakfast in his room, but had come to join them after receiving the mail, wondering if one of them had sent for it. Severus was still sitting with them, slowly nursing his coffee, which had gone cold.

"Special edition!" spat Draco. "He thinks he's _special_ , that Potter."

"Read it or don't read it," said Lucius. "But I don't want to have to hear about it."

Draco chose to read it.

About halfway into the first page, he went white.

"Mother…? Mother, Potter… he's talking about you."

"About me?" She set down her berry.

"He's talking about when Hermione and Auntie broke into your sister Andromeda's house. He said Hermione has been brainwashed, that she's one of us now. He says… he says she was spreading terrible lies about his father and other followers of Dumbledore. Saying they did things to innocent people… like you."

The color drained from Narcissa's face.

Severus eyes snapped up to meet hers.

Lucius, confused, reached for the magazine. "What lies? What's wrong, son?"

"He says… he says Hermione said… Mother… Mum?" Draco stared at her, sickened. "Potter says Hermione and Auntie accused his father… and Longbottom's father… and Sirius Black… of… of…" He shook his head. He couldn't say it. "They were here, at the Manor… he says…"

Severus swore under his breath.

Lucius quickly skimmed the column, looking for the part that had his son so upset.

"Mother?"

"No," whispered Narcissa. Her hand went to her chest, but she didn't scratch, just dug her nails into the skin until it broke. "No… no."

"Cissa…" Lucius, as white as his son, set the magazine on the table. "This isn't true."

"Oh…" Her nose twitched. Her eyes filled with hot tears. She couldn't speak another word, couldn't move, could scarcely breathe.

"Narcissa…" Lucius moved his chair closer to her and turned hers so their knees were touching. "My lotus blossom, my love. This isn't true. What Potter says the girl-"

"Oh," Narcissa said again, this time so small he almost didn't hear it.

Severus closed his eyes. He felt like an intruder upon this scene, but he couldn't leave. Not now.

"Mummy?" asked Draco. He felt ill. It couldn't be true. Potter's father couldn't have done _that_ to his mother. He couldn't have. No one would. No one could be that evil. Not even a Potter. It was a lie. A vulgar, awful lie. Either Hermione and his aunt had lied that night or Potter was lying now. It _had to be_ a lie.

"Cissa?" Lucius cupped her face between his hands. Their eyes locked. Clearly needing to believe his own words, he said softly, "Had that happened, you would have told me."

She wanted to assure him no, it hadn't happened. It was a lie. Potter was lying. Or Hermione was lying. Bella was lying. The Quibbler printed naught by lies. _She had to tell him it was a lie._

But her face crumpled, she fell forward against his chest, her shoulders shook with sobs…

And she couldn't speak at all.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

Lestrange would be allowed to explain himself.

And then she'd be allowed to do to him whatever she wanted to him as punishment.

 _Whatever she wanted._

Hermione's wand hand steadied. She felt sick and scared and ever-so-slightly… excited.

"Enervate him," she ordered the Dark Lord. "Let's see what he has to say for himself."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

Nymphadora and Remus enjoyed the wedding. They were enjoying the reception. They were enjoying being together, being in love, being expectant parents.

They were enjoying the day more than they had any in recent memory.

Until that Patronus from Kingsley.

A Lynx.

Bearer of bad news.

 _"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead."_

The Ministry has fallen.

Scrimgeour is dead.

 _"They're coming."_

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 August, 1997**

 **(present)**

 _"The Ministry has fallen."_

The Ministry has fallen.

Hermione and Draco sat silently, facing each other across her desk. They were locked together in the cell. Wandless. Helpless.

The others had gone, save for Rodolphus, who'd been too weak once Hermione was done with him. He was recuperating upstairs, guarded by a house elf.

 _"As of today, the Ministry has fallen."_

The white shimmery doe in front of them spoke again, in the deep, distinct voice they'd both heard more times than they could count.

 _"The Minister is dead."_

"What now?" whispered Draco.

Hermione shook her head.

"Hermione," whispered Draco insistently, as if she hadn't heard him, as if she must have all the answered. "Hermione, what now?"

She shook her head again.

"The Ministry has fallen," she echoed.

The Patronus dissipated.

What now?


	26. POWER AND CONTROL

**A/N:**

 _ **PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!**_

 **I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-uploading every chapter of this fic. Chapters 1-17 and the prologue have not changed save for fixed typos and a couple of continuity issues, but I have ADDED and moved sections in chapters 18-22, and then rewritten much of what was 23-24. Those chapters are now chapters 23-27.**

 **If you read this prior to 27 Aug, 2019, you don't have to re-read prologue-22, but probably want to at least skim through 23-27 before reading the 100% new chapter, 28, which will be posted on Saturday, 31 August. If you read this fic for the first time after 31 August, just keep going and ignore this a/n.**

 **Thank you for your understanding! An author's note at the end of the next chapter explains more.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

 **POWER AND CONTROL**

 **2 September, 1997**

 **(present)**

The Ministry was his.

His!

Under his control.

And yet…

Those rotten children had managed to infiltrate it.

Ronald Weasley. Ginny Weasley.

Harry Potter.

They broke into the Ministry. They broke into Umbridge's office. They broke into the Wizengamot hearing.

And then they escaped.

Escaped! That was the worst injustice of all.

They broke in, undetected, then got found out, and still managed to _escape_.

He knew not what they were seeking or whether they'd found it, but he didn't care.

Heads would fucking _roll_ for this.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 September, 1962**

 **(35 years ago)**

Eleven-year-old Bellatrix Black slipped out of bed unnoticed, and made her way from the Slytherin Common Room to the library. She twice had to duck behind statues to avoid being spotted by that creepy caretaker, Filch, but thankfully he seemed distracted tonight. He was carrying a cat, a fluffy gray tabby, and talking to her as if she were human.

"It's alright, Mrs. Norris. We'll find a way to change you back. There must be a cure for it! Being a Maledictus can't mean you'll be stuck in cat-form forever!"

It had been a difficult day, the first day of classes. She'd had Potions with the Ravenclaws followed by Transfiguration with the Gryffindors.

In Potions, she'd embarrassed herself by rushing in almost late, then tripping over a book a classmate left on the floor, banging her face against a long table, and passing out. Professor Slughorn had woken her with some sort of special smelling salts and sent her to Madam Pomfrey to get her broken nose fixed. She returned to class too late to brew the day's potion, with two already forming black eyes and a terrible headache. Slughorn had then apologetically assigned her extra homework to make up for what she'd missed in class.

In Transfiguration, she'd arrived extra early and sat down at the first table in the front. Other students filled in, sitting at all the other tables, including three girls at the one behind her. Nobody shared hers. McGonagall had made one of the trio of Gryffindors move to sit beside her. The girl grumbled, plopped down grumpily, and shot Bellatrix a dirty look. She raised her hand to answer McGonagall's every question, often shouting out the answer before being called upon, until the professor asked that she give others a chance, and the three Gryffindors giggled. This shut her up.

After class everyone hurried off to dinner together laughing and talking about their day. She trailed behind, clutching her books to her chest, tears stinging her eyes. She felt more alone than she ever had at home.

She had been so looking forward to school, and now she just wanted to go home.

Once safely hiding in the library, Bellatrix made a beeline for the Restricted Section. She paused just before passing through the stacks. What if they were somehow warded to stop students from slipping in at night? She might suffer some horrible hex that would leave her even more bruised than the Potions table.

Or worse. Expelled.

Deciding to simply go for it, she held her breath and pressed on.

Nothing happened.

It didn't take long for her to find the book she wanted. She almost cried out with happy surprise, but managed to bite back her yelp.

Magick Most Evile.

This was the book being bought by the man with the eyes that glittered red at the bookshop the day she turned six. Over five years had passed, and she was insatiably curious about it, but when she'd recently asked her father about it she'd been quickly shut down.

"We cannot have books like that in our home, Bella," he said. Then he swore. "Druella, imagine what people would say if they heard our eleven-year-old asking about that!"

"I'll take you to the bookshop this weekend, Bella," her mother had said. "You can choose a new Duchess Diana of Drake book to take with you to Hogwarts."

"But I hate those!" Bella had whined. Duchess Diana of Drake was a priggish, elegant pureblood witch whose stories all centered her romance with a handsome duke descended from Merlin with whom she solved stupid low-stakes mysteries, like The Case of the Disappearing Diamond and The Quidditch Captain's Question. Little Narcissa loved them. Narcissa. Who was _seven_.

"Something non-fiction, then," said Father. "The Extended History of Arithmancy took me far in my school days. Get her that one, Druella."

"That sounds fascinating," said Andromeda, who was almost as bookish as Bellatrix, but far more interested in numerology and symbols and _maths_ than mystery and melodrama and things that mattered.

"I want something exciting!" whined Bellatrix.

"Oh, do you mean like those books you keep hidden under your mattress?" asked Andromeda, her eyes wide with faux innocence. The rotten little nine-year-old loved stirring up trouble. "You know, the ones with the witches wearing ripped corsets and the shirtless wizards?"

"What?" Their mother's eyes had widened, then narrowed. "What are you reading?"

"They're just books, Mummy!"

"Don't tell me they're just books, Bellatrix Druella! You know that sort of filth is not permitted in this home. March straight to your room and retrieve those for me at once!"

"I'll kill you," Bellatrix mouthed to Andromeda, who flashed a smile in return.

That was weeks ago, and while she had gotten into trouble for her hidden books, she'd also been allowed to buy new ones to take to school, the arithmancy one and an age-appropriate mystery, plus she'd sneaked to school the one romance she hadn't given up to Mother because it was her favorite. But she had nothing like this. No books about Dark Magic.

Her eyes darted around the library. Should she read the book while sitting here, or sneak it out to her dorm to read in the privacy of her own bed?

In her bed, she decided.

She almost got caught once more on the walk back to her common room, but soon enough she was buried under her covers, the curtains of the fourposter bed drawn around her, deep into the first chapter.

She didn't need friends.

She had books.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **2 September, 1997**

 **(present)**

"Auntie?" Hermione knocked again on the door of Malfoy Manor's master bedroom. Narcissa had refused to leave the room since her husband carried her there one month and one day ago, after the Quibbler article.

"Auntie, please talk to me."

A house elf appeared in the hall.

"Mistress Malfoy has asked for no company," said the little elf. "Mistress Malfoy says, 'go away.'"

"Alright." Hermione shook her head dejectedly. She'd tried to speak with her aunt every single time she'd been let out of her cell over the past four weeks, and been sent away every time. Narcissa was refusing to see Bellatrix or Severus, too, and rarely even let her son in.

"She's despondent," sighed Lucius over dinner a few nights before. "She hardly eats, she hardly sleeps, she won't get out of bed to shower unless I force her. She's almost worse off now than she was… then… It hasn't been this bad since our daughter…" He choked back a sob and stood. "Excuse me."

The others waited until he'd left the room before conversation continued.

"I've never been so sorry for anything in my life," said Hermione, who was not in the mood for her dinner. "I shouldn't have told Harry, but I can't believe he ran right to the Quibbler and told the world. How could anybody be so cruel? Maybe he is like his father, like you said. Maybe he just doesn't have it in him to care."

"Don't worry, love. We'll get revenge," Bellatrix said darkly, glaring down at her plate. "Potter will pay."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **5 September, 1979**

 **(eighteen years ago)**

Bellatrix paced around her cell, agitated and heavy and, frankly, afraid. She thought the Dark Lord would spring her from Azkaban right away. She didn't think she'd do more than a night or two behind bars at most, but here she was, still, her belly getting bigger every day, her resolve weakening.

She had terrible nightmares from which she'd wake up sweat-drenched and hallucinating, thinking she was being cradled by her mother. She could almost hear Mummy's heartbeat, almost smell that rosewater shampoo, almost hear her voice whispering, "Hush, Bella. It's alright. Sleep, now. You're not alone. I'm here."

Her lower back ached, her feet were swollen, and the baby was pressing most painfully against her internal organs. She'd thought being on house arrest at Malfoy Manor was bad. This was far, far worse.

Someone was wailing down the hall. A mournful sound.

She could see out the small window over the grounds. Dementors hovered out there, waiting to suck souls. Inside guards and Aurors worked together, patrolling, watching, never letting anything slip past them. The prison itself was built on a landscape of jagged rocks, surrounded by water, an icy death if one made it past the bars, guards, Aurors, Dementors, rocks. No escape.

"Your father is coming to save us," Bellatrix whispered, rubbing her expanded midsection, hoping to soothe the restless, kicking baby inside. "He won't let you be born here, little one. He loves us."

"Talking to yourself, Lestrange?" A guard stuck his face right up to the bars. He spat at her feet. "Going mad? Or were you mad before they caught you?"

"When I'm free, when I have my wand-"

"Free? You'll never be free." The guard laughed. "You're here for the long haul, Lestrange. The Ministry doesn't take kindly to killers."

"I've never killed anyone," she lied. "You have no proof of-"

"Doesn't matter. Your leader is a murderer and one by one, you'll all go down with the ship. Like rats on the Titanic. Taking on water. Drowning."

"Even Muggles know real witches don't sink," she countered. "I'm not afraid of a little water. And I'm not afraid of you."

"You're afraid to be forgotten here, though, aren't you? Afraid your master won't come back? We all hear you muttering in your sleep. Pathetic. You cry like the rest of them. Does your husband know you're in a family way? Aurors have been looking for him for over two years, but speaking of rats, he always manages to scurry away before they drop the net."

"Fletcher!" The deep, booming voice of another man made the one at her cell door flinch. "Leave her alone. You'll stress her into early labor."

"So?" asked Fletcher obnoxiously. "Doesn't matter to me whether she pops her evil spawn out today, next week, or a month from now."

"You're supposed to be on D block, aren't you? What are you doing here?" A tall, dark-skinned man with a tight afro, an Auror identification badge, and one gold loop earring stepped in front of her cell. He stared down Fletcher, who was much shorter. "Get to your patrol. Or I'll have to report this."

"Headed there now, Shacklebolt," said Fletcher. He sent one last sneer in Bellatrix's direction. "Until next time, Lestrange."

She tossed her dirty hair and replied, "Fuck you, fuck the filthy whore who birthed you, and fuck the poor sad bastard who filled her with his seed."

Fletcher chuckled as he bustled down the hall. Shacklebolt didn't leave. She thought he might chastise her for her word choice or mock her for her situation, like all the others, but he looked her over discerningly like a Healer checking on a patient.

"What?" she asked.

"You're up. That's good."

"Why's that good?"

"Keep your blood flowing. Better for the baby." He leaned against the bars. "So I'm told."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you care about my baby?"

"I care that the baby is born healthy because it's not the baby's fault you're here and all babies deserve a good start. That it's yours is merely incidental."

She didn't quite believe him. This had to be a trick.

"What's going to happen to my baby? After it's born?"

"I don't know." This, at least, seemed genuine. "But if I were in charge, I'd have Aurors watching over you in a secure room at St. Mungo's instead of keeping you here. This is no place for a pregnant woman. Have you been tried, yet? Sentenced?"

"No. Arrested, imprisoned. I was under the impression the Ministry had decided to temporarily forgo trials for those suspected of aiding the Dark Lord. Too time consuming."

"Yes." Shacklebolt appeared disgusted by this. "No due process for suspected Death Eaters, apparently. I've told Dumbledore about you, about your condition. I hope he has the clout to get you transferred to the hospital until the baby is born and ready to be taken from you."

"No one will be taking my baby." She leaned against the wall. Standing for so long was exhausting, but getting all the way down to her cot was difficult too. She wished she had a chair or small sofa. Anything would be better than trying to make herself comfortable on a stone floor or a straw-filled mattress. "And I don't need you appealing to Dumbledore on my behalf, either. I can care for myself!"

"Yes, you seem to be doing a stellar job at self-care," he said dryly. "You don't want anyone to take your baby? What do you intend to do with it? Raise it behind bars? Surely you have a mother or sister who could-"

"I don't intend to remain in this prison much longer." She tossed her hair again, a habit she'd picked up in childhood. Not only was it currently dirty, though, it was frazzled with the humidity and snarled thanks to a lack of haircare products, and judging by his expression she failed to look haughty and dignified as she once had.

"If you're lucky, you'll be granted a hearing within the next month or two, at which time you'll know your fate." He shrugged. "But if you're as wicked as they say, this will be your home for a good long time."

"Wicked?" She cackled derisively. "Wickedness is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?"

"I thought that was beauty."

"One and the same."

He shook his head. "I don't know what is to be done with you or with your baby in the long term, Mrs. Lestrange. But, for now, it's best if you get up and walk as often as you're able. I'll also see about getting you a water goblet that refills whenever it's emptied. It is important you not become dehydrated."

"Why do you care about me?" she asked suspiciously, her eyebrows drawn together as she glared at him, wishing the Dementors did not interfere with her ability to perform wandless Legilimency.

"I thought I made it clear, I don't care about you," he said. "But I was conceived in a cell two floors below you, just over twenty-one years ago, and during my mother's pregnancy the guards did nothing to ensure my wellbeing, nor hers, which resulted in my early birth and a variety of health complications for us both. _That_ I care about."

"Why?" She recognized the name Shacklebolt; they were among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, of course. But she couldn't recall a Shacklebolt – a woman, no less – sentenced to time in prison. Even though she would have been a child then, she couldn't imagine she wouldn't have overheard her mother's ladies' group gossiping about it.

"My mother was found guilty of using magic against a Muggle. I was only guilty of having been conceived during her incarceration. In case you're wondering – and I know you are – no, my mother was not herself a Shacklebolt. She gave me her mother's maiden name to protect me."

"What was her-"

He didn't let her get the question out. "I was born early and sick, and resided with my mother in this hell until I was a year old, at which time they saw fit to rip us apart and place me with relatives. Fine start in life for a baby, eh? From Dementors to strangers. I was returned to her upon her release six years later, but she was damaged by that time, after a full decade in prison. I never knew her as the woman my family described. And the health complications I suffered affect me still today, though not as greatly as they did in my childhood. I simply do not wish to see your offspring suffer as I did. My concern for you extends no farther than that."

"You said she _conceived_ you in this prison?" Bellatrix felt vaguely ill. It was bad enough having her husband paw at her in the past when she was not interested, which, thankfully, the Dark Lord put a stop to, but the possibility of falling pregnant while in prison was too horrifying to digest.

"The guards are here to keep watch over the prisoners," said Shacklebolt, his face hard, his tone one of resignation. "The Aurors are here to keep watch over the guards."

"Shacklebolt!" called an unfamiliar voice from down the hall. "You read over this paperwork? I need a signature!"

"Excuse me," said Shacklebolt. He turned from her cell. His footsteps echoed down the long corridor, punctuated by the whines and wails of her fellow prisoners.

She placed a hand on her belly, right where she'd just felt her baby kick again.

"Don't worry, little one," she whispered. "We'll be out of here long before you're born."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **8 August, 1997**

 **(one month ago)**

They were having a meeting, the first since the Ministry fell to them. There was a cheery feeling in the air, all were in good spirits knowing their leader was satisfied with the work they'd done as of late, and the Malfoy house elves had set out quite a spread of cakes and puddings, piping hot tea, and ice cold butterbeer.

The Dark Lord was seated in his usual place at the head of the table with his closest supporters to either side, Bella to his right, Severus to his left. Also present were his daughter, Hermione – he was determined to see her more involved, but only when he thought his orders might appeal to her – plus the Malfoys (sans Narcissa), the Rowles, the Carrows, and the rest of the regulars: Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Dolohov, Yaxley, Macnair, Rookwood, and that mousey slime, Pettigrew. Eight on each side of the table. No one facing the Dark Lord from the other end. Nagini slithered around his chair and eventually curled up at his feet. And they began.

"A toast." He raised his glass. His followers – and Hermione - did the same. "To all, I say, a job well done. The Daily Prophet is ours. The Ministry is ours. Hogwarts is ours. Let us drink to our continued success. While I am your leader, the one to whom you look for guidance, the one ultimately in control, I could not have managed this without all of you present here."

He slightly tipped his glass first in the direction of stoic Severus, then to each other person seated around the table, finishing with Bellatrix, who beamed. The Dark Lord managed a small smile. He didn't truly believe he owed these people anything, but he knew the importance of recognizing those who deserved it… and he knew even a little praise went a long way.

"To each of you: you have done well, and you shall be rewarded. To all of you, I give my thanks."

"Even me?" asked Alecto, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"To you, yes, Alecto," he said. "You know I have a special appointment in mind for you. You have impressed me as of late. You have done well."

Bellatrix sneered. She hated hearing him praise other women. Especially given what had happened only nine days ago. The reason she'd gotten drunk for the first time in a long, long time. And not happy drunk. The bad kind.

On the thirty-first of July, after spending the night in the cell with her daughter, tossing and turning and unable to get a decent night's sleep, she'd gone into the room she'd shared off-and-on with the Dark Lord to find he wasn't alone.

He was in bed with Evangeline Chaucer.

Her cheeks went hot remembering it. She'd never felt so betrayed in her entire life. All the years she'd been with him, she'd never once known him to bed another woman. He was, as he often told her in those early years, above the "base and carnal desires of man," which is what made his relationship with her, unconventional as it may be, special.

But there was that contemptable woman, under the blankets, clearly undressed, sweat-drenched and smiling triumphantly.

Her heart couldn't have hurt more if he'd stabbed her straight through it. The Cruciatus Curse was less painful.

"My apologies for interrupting… Tom."

She'd fled from the room before he could scold her for using his forbidden name.

She'd gone straight to her room, summoned a house-elf, demanded a bottle of elf-made red wine, and started drinking.

And crying.

She did nearly as much crying as she did drinking.

How could he?

She hadn't said a word to him about it, nor had he mentioned it to her, and she hadn't seen Evangeline Chaucer in the week and a half since.

The following day, while secretly battling the worst hangover of her adult life, she and the Dark Lord had presented a united front to their nearly defiled daughter in encouraging her to explain how she'd defended herself against Rodolphus. She stood with him and held his hand and he told her to call him Tom when in the presence of the girl alone. He told Hermione he cared about Bellatrix's wellbeing, and she wanted it to be true. She wanted him to care for both of them.

They'd watched together, proud parents, as Hermione transformed in front of their eyes. Her punishment of Rodolphus started out meek, uncertain, but as she grew comfortable and exuded power, natural power…

Bellatrix had been delighted.

The Dark Lord perhaps even more so.

And then the Ministry had fallen and he'd taken her to bed and breathed words of affection into her ear, reminding her she was his, that she was special, that he'd chosen her for a reason, and she'd wanted to ask him about what she'd seen, and she'd wanted to cry, but…

"Bella? Bellatrix?" The Dark Lord cleared his throat. _"Mrs. Lestrange?"_

Hermione stepped on her mother's foot. Bellatrix startled.

"I… what?"

"I asked a question. It seems you've not been paying attention."

"I… my apologies, my Lord. I was… distracted. I was thinking about…" Quick, what could she have been thinking about? "About the Minis-"

"I know what you were thinking, Bella." A flash of anger in his red eyes told her he had perused her mind while she was preoccupied.

She ducked her head. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

"Let us hear from the man himself." The Dark Lord turned to Snape. "Severus?"

"Headmaster, my Lord?"

"Who better, Severus?"

He nodded. "I would be honored."

"You're making him Hogwarts headmaster?" asked Bellatrix. "Why?"

"I've already said." The Dark Lord did not look at her. "I'll not waste time repeating myself. But the question is, what to do with the girl."

"The girl?"

"I asked your opinion, but it seems your mind is elsewhere."

"I… no, my Lord, I… what?"

Down the table, Alecto snickered. Bellatrix shot her a sharp look that shut her up quick. She dragged her gaze back to the Dark Lord.

"What to do with the girl?" Bellatrix asked.

"She might be safe at Hogwarts," said the Dark Lord. "Or she might become a target."

"Won't Potter be there?" asked Draco. Lucius hissed at the mention of the boy's name.

"I doubt Potter would be foolish enough to return to school," said Severus Snape carefully. "Nor do I expect to find Weasley stepping off the Hogwarts Express on the first of September. Either Weasley."

Hermione inhaled sharply. Bellatrix put a gentle hand on the girl's knee. A part of her missed her former friends, that was clear, though the anger she harbored toward them both was also palpable.

"School will be compulsory for all," said the Dark Lord. "As will Muggle Studies, which brings us to another of our new hires. Would you like to share the news, Alecto?"

Alecto wheezed a giggle and stood to address the group. "I'll be teaching Muggle Studies this year, with my brother doin' Dark Arts!"

"Dark Arts?" asked Severus.

"Yes," said the Dark Lord. "No longer will we bother with this 'defense' rubbish. Students have been denied their right to study the Dark Arts for too long and, as a result, they grow up woefully unprepared and under-educated. We don't want that. Do we, Hermione?"

"Er, no. Sir."

"No. We want students' brains filled with as much knowledge as their heads can manage to hold. Over this past year, I have made many mistakes when it comes to the education of a certain pupil, and the positive side effect is that I now have a better understanding of what young people need."

Hermione looked to him with surprise. "You do?"

"You do?" echoed Bellatrix.

"Why has Hogwarts been denying students a proper, cohesive, complete education over the past several decades? They've been denying you your power, your strength, to keep you easily controlled. By teaching only defensive spells but not those you would be defending yourself against, they are denying you half the knowledge you would need to properly defend yourself against anyone who seeks to harm you." The Dark Lord looked from Hermione to Rodolphus, who squirmed. "How can you defend yourself against something you don't understand, Hermione? It would be like asking Madam Pomfrey to cure a disease she is not permitted to study, or asking Viktor Krum to catch the Snitch without first allowing him to mount a broom."

Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow. She was surprised the Dark Lord could even name Viktor Krum.

"That doesn't make sense," said Hermione slowly. "You cannot cure what you can't identify. Nor can you dominate in a field in which you've not learned the basics."

"Precisely," said the Dark Lord. "Which is why Muggle Studies will be a requirement for all students in all years as of this year, and which is why we will be teaching the Dark Arts."

"That's me!" said Amycus Carrow. He stood beside his sister. "Dark Arts, at your service, Snape."

"Oh, joy," said Severus, without a hint of mirth.

"Don't send Hermione back to Hogwarts, please, my Lord." Bellatrix grabbed his hand and squeezed it desperately. "It's too dangerous there. Too many enemies. I cannot lose her again!"

"Severus will be there. Don't you trust him?"

"You know I don't, my Lord."

"Your confidence in me means everything, Bellatrix," said Severus dryly. Hermione would have giggled at this, but she was too full of anxiety swirling up from the pit of her stomach. Might she go back to school?

Did she want to go back to school?

 _Yes,_ she decided. _She did._

"Please, Mother, I'll be safe! No one would dare hurt me knowing…" She glanced at Severus, then back at Bellatrix. "Knowing you're my mother."

"Please, my Lord, I'm begging you," whispered Bellatrix. "Don't take her from me again. Please. I ask you for so little, my Lord, and give you so much, the least you can do-"

"I must do what is best for the girl," he said, delicately picking up her hand and taking it off his, placing it back in front of her on the table. "That is my responsibility as her father."

There were several audible gasps at this from people around the table, for while many of them had long suspected his relationship with Bellatrix was less than platonic, and though there had been rumors since Bellatrix's pregnancy had become common knowledge all those years ago, few were certain he'd fathered the girl. Then, of course, there had been that article in the Quibbler.

Everyone read that article in the Quibbler.

The one in which Harry Potter denounced his ex-friend Hermione, said she'd gone mad, said she was corrupted, said she was the daughter of Lord Voldemort and his insane, sadistic follower. Harry Potter had called Bellatrix 'a mad slag.' He'd called the Dark Lord 'a cowardly monster.'

He'd called his former friend 'a disappointing traitor.'

(And then he'd told the world what had happened to Narcissa.)

But to hear it confirmed by the Dark Lord himself was quite different from hearing rumors and whispers and reading an enemy's words in a ridiculous rubbish magazine run by loony Xenophilius Lovegood.

"It's true then," whispered Euphemia Rowle. "Hermione Granger _is_ the Dark Lord's daughter."

"Knew it," said Rabastan, nudging his brother. Rodolphus sat stone-faced, staring straight ahead.

"We shall discuss this at another time, without an audience," said the Dark Lord to Bellatrix and Hermione. " Now, let us move on. The Ministry…"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **9 September, 1987**

 **(ten years ago)**

Hermione, nearly eight years old, climbed higher and higher and higher, her book tucked under her chin. Her hands were scraped from the tree's rough bark and there was a tear in the knee of her jeans, but she wouldn't stop until she felt safe.

She might never feel safe.

Below her, the children were taunting. Laughing.

"She has to come down sometime!" said one of the boys who'd been picking on her.

"How she get so high?" asked a girl.

Hermione looked down. She seemed to have skipped a few branches in the middle. There were no footholds on much of this tree. How _had_ she climbed so high? It was as if she'd been moved from branch to branch by magic.

She stayed up there until dusk, reading.

Until she could hear her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, combing the neighborhood, calling for her. Worried.

"I'm up here!" she shouted. But as soon as the words left her lips, she wasn't.

She was down. On the lowest branch.

And there was he daddy.

"Hermione!" He rushed over, grabbed her, held her tightly.

"Where are your friends?" asked Mummy.

"I want to go home," answered Hermione. She wanted to tell her parents the truth, but how could she? They'd be saddened to know the truth. Disappointed. Full of pity.

The truth was, she had no friends.

Only books.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **10 September, 1997**

 **(present)**

Bellatrix entered her sister's home through the front door.

The woman was talented with a wand, but her ability to protect her own home from intruders, especially without help from the Ministry, was sorely lacking.

Bellatrix crept quietly from room to room. It was evening, dusk. No one in the living room, nor in the hall. No one in the loo.

She followed the sound of heavy breathing to the kitchen.

They didn't notice her.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossed her arms over her chest, and smiled.

There was a young man – too young, in Bella's opinion – standing facing her, but his eyes were closed, his head tipped back. Her sister, seated on the kitchen table with her dress pushed up revealing the skin of her thighs, had her back to Bellatrix.

They were fucking.

He was fully clothed, though the first several buttons of his shirt were undone. He was a stocky man, on the shorter side, with muscular arms revealed by rolled up shirtsleeves. He was tan and freckled, with short red hair. Not bad looking.

Andromeda sighed with pleasure while the young man grunted and groaned and said things like, "Fuck… yes… yeah… oh… so tight…"

Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

He groaned, bent his head forward, and buried his face in Andromeda's hair. She raked her nails along the back of his neck and moaned. One hand left her arse and slipped between them, rubbing her. She cried out when she hit her peak. She placed her hands on the man's hips and urged him to fuck her harder, faster. He kissed her neck. She tilted her head to grant him better access.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"I know," said Andromeda.

Bellatrix pantomimed retching.

 _"And I know_ _you're here,"_ said Andromeda, sounding annoyed.

"What gave me away?" asked Bellatrix.

"What?" The man pulled back, glanced around wildly, and spotted Bella in the doorway. "Lestrange!"

"Is he a Weasley?" asked Bella.

He reached for his jacket, discarded over the back of a chair. Andromeda caught his wrist.

"My wand!" he exclaimed.

"You don't need it," said Andromeda. "And you can finish. She won't hurt you."

"You're in more danger from her than you are from me," said Bellatrix, smirking. "I hope you're using protection. And not the sort of protection a wand provides."

He pulled away from Andromeda, hurriedly tucking himself into his trousers, and reached again for the jacket.

"It's here," said Bellatrix, holding up his wand. "I Accioed it over while you were otherwise occupied. Which Weasley are you?"

"Is this an ambush?" the young man demanded of Andromeda.

"How should I know?" she asked. "I'm as surprised to see her as you are." She slipped off the table, fixed her dress, and turned toward her sister.

"I suppose you weren't watching the clock," Bella joked. Andromeda didn't laugh. The Weasley didn't get it.

"This is _very_ rude, Bellatrix, not to mention inappropriate," scolded Andromeda. "I specifically asked that you not drop in without invitation not two months ago, which was not the first time I've made such a request. Now, not only are you invading my space yet again, you scared this poor boy flaccid before I was finished with him. You couldn't have waited in the hall?"

"Give me my wand!" shouted the young man. He grabbed Andromeda around the waist, holding her in front of him like a shield. "Or I'll kill your sister."

Both Andromeda and Bellatrix chuckled at this.

"You won't, dear," said Andromeda. She wriggled away from him and moved toward the doorway, holding out her hand. "But return the wand, please, Bella. It wasn't yours to take. You know how Mother felt about those who take what they haven't earned, or touch what isn't theirs. Imagine what she would say if she could see you right now!"

"What she would say about me?" Bellatrix cackled. "You're shagging a teenager on your kitchen table!"

"A teenager? Hardly!" Andromeda scoffed. "He's twenty… er… how old _are_ you, dear?"

"Twenty-four," he answered gruffly.

"Twenty-four," echoed Andromeda authoritatively. "Hardly a teenager. Return his wand, please."

"Oh, fine." Bellatrix tossed it on the table. "But if he tries to attack me-"

"He won't."

"I might," he said.

"He won't," repeated Andromeda. "Bella, this is Charlie. Yes, he's a Weasley. Charlie, Bellatrix. My estranged sister." Andromeda bit her lip thoughtfully. "Is it right to continue calling you my _estranged_ sister? I have relatives I like that I've seen less frequently than I have you in the past year."

"You have relatives you like?" Bellatrix reacted with exaggerated shock. Andromeda scoffed.

"Yes. _Ted's_ relatives."

"Oh, yes, how _is_ Ted?"

"Not well, thanks to your lover's little Muggle Registration program. Is that why you're here?"

"No, just thought I'd stop in and say hello."

"You've said it then. Hello."

"Hello."

"Goodbye."

"Not goodbye!" Bellatrix stomped her foot childishly. "I need information."

"Ah." Andromeda again moved Charlie out of her way, this time so she could get into the refrigerator. She pulled out three bottles of Butterbeer. "And you thought I'd be the best person to give you directions to the library?"

Bellatrix put on a pout.

"Be nice, Andromeda. I need you."

"What's in it for me?"

"You're a Weasley, eh?" asked Bellatrix, looking him over more discerningly now. "We're related, you know. Twice over – through the Blacks and the Prewetts." She snorted. "So I suppose there _is_ a biological relative of yours that you get on well with, Andromeda. Our dear distant cousin, Charlie."

"Is that true?" Charlie asked Andromeda.

"We might be related through the Rosiers as well," said Andromeda, dismissively. "Does it matter?"

He looked mildly disgusted. Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

"Can't we Obliviate him, or put him to sleep awhile, and talk?"

"Absolutely not!" said Charlie, wand again at the ready. Andromeda tutted and lowered his hand.

"He seems high-strung," said Bellatrix. "Not at all like your last lover. Not as attractive either, I'm being honest."

"Last lover?" asked Charlie. "You're seeing someone else?"

"You've caught him at a bad time," said Andromeda, ignoring his question. "He was much more relaxed before he became aware of your presence. As for attractiveness, well, that's all relative, isn't it?"

"Relative, indeed," snorted Bellatrix. "But _how close_ a relative?"

"What I meant was…" said Andromeda sharply. "I happen to be attracted to broad-shouldered, well-hung gingers. Since we're on the subject, I cannot believe you were going to stand there and watch. Have you any idea how distracting that is?"

"Some witches are into that."

"I am not among them."

"I don't understand what's happening here," said Charlie. He ignored the butterbeer Andromeda tried to hand him.

"Charlie, would you mind Flooing to the Ministry and telling the Auror department I've got an escaped convict in my kitchen?"

"Charlie, would you kindly inform my sister that the Ministry is no longer under the control of those who consider escaped convicts among the wizarding world's most wanted?"

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Charlie, looking anxiously from one sister to the other. "I'm not important. I'm no one. I work with dragons. I'm working with Gringotts now, actually, so I can stay closer to home. But with dragons at Gringotts. I have no information. I'm not worth torturing."

"No one intends to torture you." Andromeda sat at the table, looking suddenly exhausted. "Stay, go, I don't care. Bella won't be here long."

"No," said Bella. She sat too. "I won't. Sit, boy. Have a Butterbeer."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **12 September, 1997**

 **(present)**

Hermione sat on the lowest branch of the tree overlooking the lake outside Malfoy Manor. She swung her legs like a little girl and stared across the glistening water. It was a gray, cool day and she was underdressed, in one of Draco's old white button-down school shirts and Tonks' jeans.

For twelve days now, she'd been allowed to venture outside unaccompanied. This was her consolation prize for having been denied the right to return to Hogwarts on the first of September, when Draco did.

While it was nice, it didn't make up for all she was missing. Especially as Professor Snape's new position was keeping him busy, thus she'd seen him only twice since the term started.

Her cousin, though, had written to her three times already. Though he would never say as much (too much pride) she suspected he was lonely.

She sat in the tree and twirled has wand, occasionally practicing simple spells, the ones she'd mastered before she started attending Hogwarts as a plucky know-it-all eleven-year-old seven years ago. She was nearly eighteen now, and a prisoner not only in her home, but in her own mind.

It had felt good, torturing Rodolphus Lestrange.

Better than she cared to admit.

Better than she would ever want her biological parents to know.

She dreamt about it sometimes. She felt the power coursing through her veins, the sick twisted joy filling her soul as she watched him writhe on the floor as punishment for having tried to hurt her.

She dreamt about it, and then she'd wake up full of adrenaline and lust the need to dominate another again. She'd close her eyes and touch herself until she was sated and able to fall asleep again, guilt gnawing vaguely at her, being intentionally suppressed.

She'd used the Cruciatus Curse on him, among other things. And it had felt too good.

She pointed her wand at a nearby tree, one with scorched, dead branches. It looked as though it had been struck by lightning.

She wondered.

She squinted and pictured Rodolphus. She shot a stunning spell.

It left a faint red line across the trunk.

It wasn't enough.

She pictured Harry instead.

Another article had come out in the Quibbler on the last day of August.

In this one, Harry struck back against those who called him a liar in the Daily Prophet since the fall of the Ministry. He reiterated that Hermione was brainwashed, that she couldn't be trusted… and cautioned she might even be a dark witch. He said their old friends and compatriots ought to be wary of her, to see her as the enemy. He said perhaps blood mattered more than he'd previously thought it did.

He said the old Hermione was dead to them.

"We _cannot_ allow her to return to school," Bellatrix had insisted over dinner with the Dark Lord, Hermione, Lucius, and Draco the evening that edition came out. "If it wasn't too dangerous before, it is now. The boy has many supporters there, they've no doubt read his words, she'll be a target! And we can't simply move her into Slytherin, they don't know her there, they won't trust her either, she'll be caught in the middle of two opposing sides without anyone to protect her. What if they hurt her? Abduct her? Do to her what… what they did to my sist-"

"Severus will-" started the Dark Lord.

"Fuck Severus!" exclaimed Bellatrix, cutting him off. "Will Severus be there to serve as headmaster, or to play bodyguard to our daughter? He cannot do both."

The Dark Lord looked taken aback by her forcefulness, by the way she'd cut him off and dismissed whatever it was he'd been about to say. Hermione thought punishment for her mother might be forthcoming, but to her surprise, he acquiesced.

"She will remain here, then," he said, settling the matter once and for all. "It is for the best. For all involved."

Hermione knew to argue would be futile. His mind was made up.

But her eyes brimmed with furious tears.

Harry had taken so much from her. Had he not been fooled in the first place, they wouldn't have been at the Ministry in the Department of Mysteries the night she was abducted – or rescued, depending upon whose version of the story one heard. She wouldn't have lost her adoptive parents. She wouldn't have lost her freedom.

And then he cost her the only friends she had left, not just him, but Ron and Ginny and, surely, Neville and Luna. He'd no doubt turned them all against her just as he was trying to use the Quibbler to do with the general public.

And he'd cost her the relationship she'd been building with her aunt, the only woman who understood how it felt to be caught between two warring factions, in some ways her only friend, especially now that Draco had returned to school and Severus Snape was too busy for her. Her aunt hadn't spoken directly to her since that first article came out. She was too hurt.

Harry.

She regretted ever having met that awful Harry Potter.

If she'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, as the Hat considered, none of this would have ever happened. She'd still be living with the Grangers, daydreaming about the mother who birthed her. She would have returned to Hogwarts on the first of September to study the actual Dark Arts and compulsory Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes and Astronomy and Arithmancy and Potions and Transfiguration.

If she'd not been in that bathroom when the troll came that first Halloween…

But why was she there? Because Ron and Harry had been talking about her. Making fun of her. Laughing at her.

Because they thought it was "no wonder" she didn't have any friends.

As they had the other night at dinner, Hermione's eyes brimmed with furious tears. She aimed her wand at the scorched tree again, picturing Harry Potter.

They thought she was a swot, too brainy, too in love with learning and reading and books and homework and her studies, but they were never against taking from her information and potions and better marks on their own work, were they?

She broke rules for Harry. Brewed Polyjuice for him. Got turned into a half-cat monster.

She got Petrified. She could have died!

And did he appreciate any of it? Did he, _really_? Apparently not. Not if he could so easily dismiss her, call her brainwashed, weak-minded, a traitor, and indicate she had _bad blood_ , all punishment for the 'crime' of telling him the truth about his vile, disgusting father and godfather.

He believed a man he couldn't remember and another one he'd hardly known over her.

Rage began to consume her. Rage, frustration, indignation… hurt…

Just as it had the day she tortured Rodolphus Lestrange.

She felt it building, building, in need of release… any sort of release… She shifted her body on the branch, steadied herself with one hand on the trunk, wand raised.

"Performing the Cruciatus Curse isn't about proper wand movement and the right intonation," her father had told her that day, as he guided her hand, aiming her wand at the trembling mess of a man who'd married – and, later, abused – her mother. "You have to feel it deep within, Hermione. You have to truly _want_ to cause pain."

All she felt was pain.

And she wanted to cause it.

She wanted to take all the pain she felt and direct it at the person who deserved it, the person who'd ruined her entire bloody life, the person who'd told the entire world she was a liar, a deviant, a traitor… the daughter of criminals… a weak-minded woman with _bad blood._

She pictured Harry, pointed her wand at the tree, and screamed out, _"CRUCIO!"_

An hour later, she was still picking splintered bark out of her hair.


	27. HERMIONE'S EIGHTEENTH

**A/N:**

 _ **PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!**_

 **I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-uploading every chapter of this fic. Chapters 1-17 and the prologue have not changed save for fixed typos and a couple of continuity issues, but I have ADDED and moved sections in chapters 18-22, and then rewritten much of what was 23-24. Those chapters are now chapters 23-27.**

 **If you read this prior to 27 Aug, 2019, you don't have to re-read prologue-22, but probably want to at least skim through 23-27 before reading the 100% new chapter, 28, which will be posted on Saturday, 31 August. If you read this fic for the first time after 31 August, just keep going and ignore this a/n.**

 **Thank you for your understanding! An author's note at the end of the THIS chapter explains more.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:**

 **HERMIONE'S EIGHTEENTH**

 **19 September, 1979**

 **(eighteen years ago)**

The pain started before the sun rose. She lay on her cot, one hand pressed against her swollen midsection, breathing slowly and deliberately.

This must be labor. She'd been preparing for it for weeks, mentally, knowing it was coming, but with no idea what to expect.

She blinked back tears.

She wanted her mother.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The ceiling of her cell was filthy. She stared up at the cobwebs and dust and centuries of grime. Surely she couldn't bring a child into the world here, of all places. Surely this was no place for a baby.

But she couldn't let them take her. Or him. Girl or boy didn't matter, so long as it was healthy, though she had been envisioning a little girl for months. Her sister had had a little girl. A guard had thrown a newspaper into her cell, open to the announcement, just one month earlier.

"Congratulations, Auntie," he'd sneered. "Maybe your sister will take yours and raise them together."

"I'm going to raise mine," she'd said.

He'd laughed. "As if they'd let you."

But they couldn't take the baby away. Not right away, anyway. Could they?

Babies need their mummies.

A particularly sharp pain came over her. She clenched her teeth and hissed to keep from crying out. How long would this last?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Her feet were shackled both to each other and to the wall. She could walk around her cell – well, shuffle, really – but she had limited movement. How could she give birth if she couldn't even properly spread her legs?

What if it hit its head on the cold stone floor when it came out?

What if she couldn't stop bleeding and she bled to death, leaving the baby wailing for sustenance, waiting for a mummy it would never know?

She wished she could talk to Narcissa. Narcissa knew about this sort of thing, not only because she'd gone through pregnancy already herself, but because she'd studied books about pregnancy and childbirth and childrearing the way Bella had studied for her O. .

She even wished she could talk to Andromeda, mother of a Metamorph, wife of a Mudblood. Andromeda always kept calm in a crisis. Nothing phased her. She might not know what to do, but she would act as though she did, and somehow it would all work out.

Breakfast was provided right on time that morning. German brown bread, water, apple, orange.

"You must be special," said the raggedy haired old man in the cell across from her. "I didn't get a fucking apple. No fucking orange, either."

"You're not gestating," said the guard, that young one, the one who'd said he was born in this very prison. Shacklebolt. He slipped his hand into his robes and pulled out something wrapped in gold foil, which he pressed into her hand through the bars. She took it but didn't respond, didn't thank him, didn't speak at all, for fear if she opened her mouth she'd start to cry… or scream.

The guard continued down the hall. The man in the cell across from hers continued to swear and spit, furious over his lack of fruit. She had half a mind to throw the apple at him. If it got him in the head and knocked him unconscious, it would be worth losing out on the extra calories.

She unwrapped the foil.

Chocolate. Dark chocolate. Her favorite kind.

She saved it for after the orange.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It wasn't the worst pain she'd ever felt, not yet. How long could contractions last, anyway? She didn't feel it was necessary to try to undress yet, to try to push.

She ate the bread next and drank the water, saving apple for later. She might need to bite into it while giving birth, as she didn't have a strap of leather.

Her wrists were bound too, but the chain that connected them was long enough that she could spread her arms out like a lowercase T, provided she kept her elbows flush against her sides.

At lunch, another piece of brown bread, more water, and thick murky brown stew that smelled putrid. She ate the bread, drank the water, and devoured the apple. She supposed the could always bite down on the core later, if necessary.

Dinner, if it could be called that, was served while she was starting to experience what could only be described as hard labor.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She could barely breathe at all.

More brown bread. She was so bloody sick of brown bread. If she never saw bread again in her life, she'd be happy. Brussel sprouts, boiled, the day's vegetable. Hardly edible. One half of a baked potato, no butter, no salt. Tasteless.

It didn't matter.

She couldn't eat anyway.

By the time she was ready to push she was dizzy from the pain.

But she managed.

She managed.

And she had a daughter.

She had her, then she lost her.

It was the best and worst day of her life.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"I do not understand you as of late," said the Dark Lord, sneering down at the woman in his bed.

"Nor I, you!" she said, but her voice was muffled by the pillow she was holding over her face. "How could you?"

"How could I what?"

"You know what!"

"If I knew what, I would not be asking." He grabbed the pillow and tried to pull it away. "Bellatrix, look at me!"

"NO!"

"Bella!" With a flick of his wand, the pillow exploded, sending feathers flying in all directions.

Bellatrix let out a frustrated scream.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Are you mentally unbalance?"

"Am I? Are you! You're the one having an affair!" She threw her arms over her face as the pillow had been. It was early, the sun hadn't quite risen all the way, and she'd spent the last hours having nightmares about him. Him and other women. She'd even had one in which she learned he'd left her for her sister, absurd as that would be. By morning, she felt sick and furious. "How could you?"

"An affair? Me?" He scoffed. "You're married, not I!"

"Not by choice."

"Divorce him, then."

"I tried." She finally met his eyes. "Remember? I filed for divorce during the first war, but before it was finalized I became pregnant and went into hiding. You _ought to_ remember. You were bloody there! You were the one who permitted-"

"I remember." He nudged her over enough to allow him space on the bed. "What makes you think I'm having an affair? Since the very first time I Summoned you to my side in the middle of the night, I have been clear that the companionship of women is hardly a necessity for me, that I do not need-"

"Evangeline Chaucer. That cow. I caught you with her in July. Or have you forgotten?"

"Caught me with her!" He shook his head. _"Caught me with her?"_

"Yes, _caught you with her._ In bed."

"In bed?"

"In bed. Naked."

"Naked?"

"Yes." She sat up and turned to face him. "Stop repeating everything I say."

"Stop repeat-"

"My Lord!"

"Mrs. Lestrange!" He stood, threw up his hands, and turned his back to her. "It's true, then. You've gone mad. Too much time in Azkaban. Or is it from the stress of having found your child?" He swiveled around, glaring hatefully at her. "Perhaps it is hormonal. Menstruation? Menopause? Are you no longer the pillar of strength and reason you once were? Have you-"

"Don't try to make me think I've gone mad, my Lord." Her eyes darkened and narrowed. They were gearing up for a hell of a row, and though she knew she'd lose, she was determined not to give up the fight. She'd been holding onto this for too long without confrontation already.

"On the thirty-first of July, my Lord, I entered _this_ bedroom to find _you_ in bed with that desperate dick-sucking slag! I've tried not to let it bother me, but early this morning, before sunrise, after a fitful night's sleep, when I was in need of mental reprieve, I walked in on her with my husband! I can't go anywhere, it seems, without finding her on her back under a man with whom I'm been before. It's all too much. Frankly, I do not understand the appeal."

"Why were you entering the bedroom of your husband this morn-"

"Bedroom? Fuck! They were in the bloody library! Don't change the subject! You were with her not two months ago and now you owe me a bloody explanation."

His eyes widened. Had he brows, they'd be raised to the point his hairline had once reached.

"Has everyone had a turn with her?" Bellatrix cut him off, too far gone to care about the punishment for her behavior. "Was she a one-off for you? For him? Or is she the go-to whore of the entir-"

"I have never been with Evangeline Chaucer."

"Liar!"

"You dare call me a liar?" He raised his wand and she flinched, but no hex or curse came. After a moment, he lowered his wand. "You are out of line, Mrs. Lestrange. No one speaks to the Dark Lord tha-"

"I don't understand how you could hate me this much," said Bellatrix. "Not when I've shown nothing but love to you for all these years. Not when I alone looked for you, I alone spoke your praises to the Wizengamot, I alone bore your child, I alo-"

"Do you know what I do not understand?" he asked. "Why you are accusing me of having had an 'affair' with Evangeline Chaucer when I have not done, nor would do, such a thing. Stop for a moment and listen to yourself. Consider the absurdity of your allegation."

"I said I _saw_ you!"

"You saw me?"

"Stop repe-"

"I shall say it once more and _only_ once more! I have never in my life been to bed with Evangeline Chaucer!"

"I saw-"

"I do not know what you think you saw, Bellatrix Lestrange, but I am no liar, and it is due only to our complicated history I am letting you live after such an accusation." He grabbed her face roughly, forcing eye contact. "Show me what you think you saw."

She felt him pushing into her mind and offered no resistance. He could feel her hurt, her insecurities, her pain. Had he caused this? Without even trying, or realizing he'd been doing so? The thought made him feel… powerful. Of course. But also a twinge of something else. Something unfamiliar. Something he did not quite understand. Almost like… regret? No, how silly. He pressed on.

He quickly found that July memory. He saw it from her eyes.

 _She was in the hall. She was exhausted, almost too exhausted to remain on two feet. She'd been out all night, working for him, seeking out an intended target. She'd not had coffee yet this morning, but she had had a drink – a bit of firewhisky overnight during her surveillance of the target, just to keep her warm. Perhaps more than a bit, when it became clear the entire evening had been a waste of time. But she was not yet drunk._

 _She slipped and hit her shoulder against the wall. She swore. She was exhausted. She needed to sleep. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in the bed of her leader, but she was afraid he would be angry with her for failing him. Perhaps she should crawl into bed with Cissy instead. Or perhaps he wouldn't even be at the Manor, he traveled often as of late, and she could sleep in their shared chambers alone._

 _Unsure of what she'd find in the bedroom, she opened the door. An image swirled before her._

 _It was worse than being alone and worse than being punished._

 _The Dark Lord, there, in bed, naked, beside Evangeline Chaucer._

 _Her heart broke. How could he? She stumbled back, slamming the door, and burst into tears._

The Dark Lord exited her mind.

And laughed.

"I hardly think it's funny, my Lord!"

"Come with me." He grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her roughly from the bed. She nearly lost her balance but managed to catch it as he hurried them from the room.

"I'm in my night-"

"Quiet."

He was already showered and dressed in a long black robe, but she was wearing a thick floor-length cotton nightgown, white with red flowers, borrowed from Narcissa. She'd most unfortunately removed the dressing gown she'd worn to the library. This was certainly not the sort of thing she'd want to be seen in.

He led her down the hall and down one set of stairs to a locked door. The nursery, formerly the bedroom of babies Diana and Draco, which had long ago been locked as the Malfoys did not plan to have more children.

He used his wand to unlock it and ordered her in first.

"In the wardrobe," he said.

She opened it.

And the image before her swirled. It became a bed, the bed in their bedroom, and there he was, naked, beside Evangeline Chaucer.

"A Boggart?" she whispered. She wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks with her sleeve.

"I discovered it in the bedroom months ago and stored it here rather than let it be destroyed, as we may find use for it later. Banish it back to the wardrobe."

She couldn't banish it back. She hadn't brought her wand. And she was too weak, emotionally, to manage it wandless.

"Riddikulus!" he said, with a wave of his. He trapped it back inside the wardrobe.

"A Boggart." She turned to him, her face flushed. "I feel foolish. Stupid. I-"

"You owe me an apology."

"I'm sorry."

"Idiotic woman."

"I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am!"

"You called me a liar. You were insubordinate. Dangerously so."

"My Lord, I'm-"

"Quiet."

Her mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. He had silenced her.

"We'll never speak of this again. And in the future, you'll do better to remember your place. Understand?"

She nodded.

"I want to hear it." His wand hand twitched, lifting the charm.

"I understand, my Lord."

"I'm growing increasingly tired of you, Bellatrix."

"Honest, my Lord, truly, I'm sor-"

He hit her.

The force of it knocked her into the wardrobe. Hurt in more ways than one, she sunk to the floor, holding a hand to her injured cheek.

She didn't understand.

The last time he did this, he said it would be _the last time_. He _promised_.

She stared up at him, her lip quivering, absolutely destroyed yet again.

"Why?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.

He sneered down at her, his lip curled, without a hint of compassion or care.

"You're not the woman you once were, Bella."

When his back was turned, when he was stalking back to the bedroom without a second glance in her direction, when he made it clear he was through with her and this discussion was over, she whispered her response.

 _"_ _And you're not the same man."_

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione didn't feel well. She awoke with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her gut, one she did not know the immediate cause of.

Then it hit her.

The date.

The nineteenth of September. Her birthday.

"Happy eighteenth," she murmured. She pulled her pillow out from under her head and held it over her face. By her feet, Crookshanks stretched and yawned. He made his way up her body and plopped back down on her chest. The light vibrations from his purrs almost dulled the pain of knowing she had spent the entirety of her seventeenth year – her first as an adult – living in captivity. She wrapped her arms around the half-kneazle.

"I'm glad I have you."

"Mrowww," was his response. She took it to mean, "Me, too."

"You're having a lie-in?"

The quiet, almost unearthly voice startled her. She jumped, upending the cat, then got tangled in her blankets and fell from the bed.

"Graceful," he said, staring down at her.

"My Lord!"

"Father," he corrected.

"Father!" She unwrapped her legs, tossed the blanket back on the bed, and sent grumpy Crookshanks an apologetic glance.

"It is your birthday." He was dressed in a long black robe, holding his wand. The snake slithered around by his feet. Crookshanks hissed in the snake's direction. Nagini hissed back.

"Yes, sir."

"Happy birthday, dear Hermione."

 _Dear Hermione?_

"Th-thank you, sir. Father."

"I thought it was, perhaps, time for your lesson, but I see you are not yet prepared to start the day."

"My lesson?" Had he told her she was having a lesson? What time was it? How long had she been asleep?

"Dress. Wash your face. Brush your hair and teeth. I'll wait here."

She nodded, grabbed the first clothes she found in her top drawer, and hurried into her little loo. It took her no time at all to get ready, though she skipped hair-brushing, pulling it back into a low, messy, tangled ponytail instead. She re-entered the main room of her cell and grabbed her wand. He looked her over discerningly.

"Your attire."

"My attire, sir?" She glanced down. Tonks' old jeans, given to her by Andromeda, and a plain white Hogwarts uniform shirt with the Slytherin crest over the left breast. This had been Draco's. She wore it partially unbuttoned over a black chemise bought for her by her mother. She thought she looked alright.

"Too… Muggle." He sneered. "Your mother will take you shopping. When I see you tonight, for dinner, I expect you to be wearing something much more suitable for a pureblood witch of distinction and good breeding. Something much more appropriate for the Dark Lord's daughter."

"I… yes, sir."

Did he say her mother would be taking her shopping? Shopping, out in public, where anyone might see them? Her heart and stomach fluttered with excitement.

"But first, breakfast. Then, your lesson."

"Yes, sir."

He unlocked the cell. She followed him up the cellar steps and all the way to the kitchen. He did not glance back, nor did he speak to her again until they were seated.

"Eighteen years ago this morning, your mother birthed you in a cell in Azkaban."

"Yes." Hermione fidgeted. She'd never shared a meal alone with him before. And she had no idea what the forthcoming 'lesson' might entail.

"Eggs?"

"What?"

The Dark Lord nodded toward the house-elf standing beside his chair, across from her. She hadn't even noticed the little guy.

"Eggs, toast, blood pudding," he said to the elf. "And for you?"

"Er… same."

"Coffee, pumpkin juice."

The elf bowed low to the Dark Lord and turned to Hermione.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Coffee and pumpkin juice would be lovely, thank you."

The elf's eyes widened. Hermione had the feeling "thank you" wasn't something he heard often. But he did not comment on it. He simply disappeared with a loud POP.

"You were born early. I was not expecting you to be early."

"I've always been the punctual sort," said Hermione, for lack of any better response. "My mum and dad used to say, 'Early is on time and on time is late.'" Her chest constricted. She had purposely avoided thinking about her mum and dad since it became clear she wouldn't be going home to them. "Sorry," she whispered.

"You loved them? These… Muggles?"

"They raised me. They took care of me. They loved me. And yes, I loved – love – them. They're good people, decent people. Hardworking and fair. Honest. Affectionate. Genuine." Their smiling faces popped into her mind and try as she did, she couldn't force them out. "They never made me feel strange. They always told me I was special. I knew I was adopted, but I never felt like they weren't my parents. They said they chose me. They called me their miracle." She sniffled. "And when they learned I was a witch, they were surprised, but proud. Excited. They hadn't even known witchcraft was real, but they embraced it, embraced me. They only ever wanted for me to be happy. They were the best sort of people."

"But they were Muggles." He seemed perplexed. She laughed.

"Yes! They were Muggles. Wonderful Muggles. And I thought I was a Muggle. Muggles are… there are many wonderful Muggles, my Lor… Father. Forgive me, but… you're wrong to fear them."

"I do not fear them."

"You are wrong to hate-"

"I do not hate them."

"You don't?"

"I hated the Muggles who raised me, make no mistake. I was raised in an orphanage, Hermione. A dismal one, with a female matron who loathed children, especially odd, gifted children like me. Like you. She would have hated you."

"You were odd, too?"

"The other children did not wish to be my friends."

If he couldn't make her hate, surely he could get her to empathize. This was not his strong suit, but it had been one of Grindelwald's signatures, and he'd studied the dark wizard extensively. While he was speaking, he rifled through her mind, plucking from it memories he could use to his advantage.

"Once, the older children chased me up a tree. They were throwing stones at me, taunting me, calling me weird, a freak. I hid up there for hours."

"I've done that!" Hermione gasped. "I've climbed a tree to get away. I've hid for hours!"

"They were Muggle children who didn't understand me. Didn't understand us. They don't understand us because they do not know that we exist. We have to keep hidden, even now. We're not up in trees, trembling, avoiding being hit by stones. We are hiding in other ways. Keeping our villages hidden. Keeping our government hidden. Keeping our Quidditch World Cup hidden." He shook his head morosely. "Keeping our children hidden."

"No one should have to hide," she said. Coffee appeared in front of them. Then, pumpkin juice. She took a sip of the former, without even adding milk or sugar. The hot liquid burned her tongue, but she did not react.

"I quite agree."

He lifted his mug and did the same.

"There are a great many things we have to hide, things which are at the core of who we are, and to our detriment. Your maternal grandmother was in love with a woman. She had to keep it secret, for fear of incurring society's wrath, being ostracized."

Hermione nodded.

"Your mother and I have to keep our…" (What should he call it?!) "Our _relationship_ hidden, for I worry if too many know of our… the depth of our… if they knew about us, it would put her in even greater danger."

"You consider it a… relationship?" asked Hermione.

He nodded. He could tell she was lapping this up, desperate to know her parents were more to each other than master and slave, or man and his whore.

"Yes. And we've had to keep our relationship a secret, not only because she is still, technically, married, but for safety's sake." He shook his head like this saddened him. "We've been hiding it from the world for many years now. Too many. Over twenty."

"Everyone knows now, though," said Hermione, looking guilty. "Because of me."

"Because of Harry Potter," said the Dark Lord, placing a hand gently over hers. "He told the papers about you, about your parentage, about your mother and me. He put her in danger, not you. He put both of you in danger. Please, do not feel guilty. Should anything horrible happen to your mother as a result – anything like what happened to your aunt Narcissa at the hands of Potter, Black, and Longbottom – it would not be _your_ fault."

Hermione's brow furrowed. She stared down at her mug and chewed her lip. He bit back a smile. She was buying this, all of it.

"I've already gotten my mother hurt twice," she said. "If someone were to do _that_ to her because of me, I-"

"It would be the fault of Harry Potter, my dear girl, not yours. You shouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions. Though I suspect you've been doing precisely that for years, haven't you? Taking responsibility for 'the Boy Who Lived.'" He tutted. "You got him through to the Philosopher's Stone as a first year, did you not?"

"I… yes, most of the way, but Ron-"

"Played Minerva's little chess match. Yes, fine. And what did Harry do?"

"He… flew… to catch the key…"

"You couldn't have caught that key?"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not much of a flyer."

"But you're brilliant. Surely, you could have gotten it in another way."

"I… yes, I think I could have, if…"

"I know you could have." He smiled. "Anyone can fly with enough practice on a broom, but you're exceptional. Brilliant."

Though she still felt uncomfortable, she smiled back.

"I figured out Snape's potions riddle," she offered. "Harry never could have managed that without me. And I knew what to do about the Devil's Snare, too."

"And only a year later, you figured out what Slytherin's monster was, didn't you? Clever girl."

Her cheeks went slightly pink.

"I did, yes, because I went to the library and-"

"Because you put in the work. When in doubt, go to the library. That was my manta as a student, and your mother's, too. That was one of the things that first attracted me to her, you know. She always had her nose stuck in a book."

"She did?" Hermione's eyebrows raised. "She was… she didn't have many friends, either. I've heard."

"No…" He shook his head and reached for his pumpkin juice. "That's true. She was not terribly adept when it came to interpersonal relations. Especially in her teen years, she was… awkward. Odd. An outcast." He shook his head an sighed. "Hermione, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He sighed again, as if what he was about to say would pain him deeply. She was clearly hanging on every word, so he made them count.

"I'm afraid it's _our_ fault you struggled to make friends as a child. Your mother's and mine. Neither of us made friends easily in our youth. Neither of us knew quite what to say or how to act. You have inherited social ineptitude from both sides. But I am pleased to say, I managed to overcome my social difficulties while at Hogwarts, and your mother…" He smiled. "I'm not quite certain she ever did, but what she lacked in social grace she made up for in intelligence, wit, tenacity and – though I may be biased – beauty."

"You think my mother is beautiful?" asked Hermione softly. While she didn't put much stock in looks, she couldn't help battling the same insecurities as so many other girls her age, and she also couldn't help wanting to romanticize her parents relationship a bit. Even though her father was… who he was.

Sensing this thanks to Legilimency, the Dark Lord nodded, and tried to look almost embarrassed by the admission.

"She's always been beautiful to me," he said, and right away he knew he'd won points, as Hermione's eyes lit up. "Even when she was first released from Azkaban, after they'd starved her and denied her medical care or enough water or even a toothbrush for over a decade, she was still beautiful." He picked out the traits he could sense Hermione didn't like about herself to highlight. "Her hair, her figure, her pale skin… I realize, of course, that not all men value the same sort of woman, but to me, she is perfect."

"Oh!" Pink spots dotted Hermione's cheeks. "Perfection. That's lovely and sweet. Does she know you-"

"I don't tell her enough, I'm sure," he said. "But let's return to you, to your childhood. To my apology."

"Your apolo-"

"You were an awkward, friendless child because of us. Not only because you inherited our nature, but because you inherited our magic. I do not feel it is bragging to say that your mother and I are among the best to have inhabited the Wizarding World in the last century, at least. I am a powerful wizard and she a talented witch. As an exceedingly brilliant child, and a magical one, you naturally stood out among your peers, just as we did."

"But-"

He held up a hand, and she swallowed her argument.

"I believe Muggle children can sense our magic, even though they cannot identify it. It's one more thing that sets us apart, makes us different. Special. Better. And you… even child witches and wizards cannot help but be jealous of you. Your intellect. Your natural talent. Your thirst for knowledge. It sets you apart from a wizard like Ronald Weasley, who wishes for fame and seeks a sense of self-importance at the expense of those around him, or a wizard like Harry Potter, whose focus is myopic, whose self-control is nonexistent, and whose abilities are… well… _limited_ , though his intentions are pure. How much harm has he caused despite those good intentions?"

"I…" She thought about the Ministry break in. She hadn't wanted to go. She wanted to check Grimmauld Place. She thought it was a bad idea to just rush off to the Ministry. But she went along with him, they all did, and they all could have died. Sirius died. She was injured. Tonks was injured. Ron and Neville were injured. Because Harry acted without thinking.

Again.

And she'd ended up a prisoner as a result.

But… no. She'd ended up finding her birth mother as a result.

Or, more accurately, her birth mother found her. She found her and saved her from a filthy, furious would-be rapist. Where was Harry when Dolohov hit her with that curse? Where was Harry when Rodolphus bent her over that table?

Where was Harry?

Their eggs, toast, and blood pudding appeared on plates in front of them.

"Tuck in," said the Dark Lord. He lifted his fork and broke the yolk on his egg. Hermione picked up a triangle of toast.

"You said you became more socially adept as you got older, sir. Did you have friends at Hogwarts?"

"I did, yes, eventually. At first, like you, I struggled. But it wasn't too long before other boys my age were friendly to me, accepting of me." He smiled as if the memory moved him, but even without making eye contact he was again rummaging undetected through her mind, looking to find out all she wanted to have gotten from school. "I didn't know how to interact with them, how to start up a friendship, not at first. But you'll never meet anyone more loyal than Slytherins, and the other boys were determined to include me. From the second day, I had someone to eat breakfast with. And by December, someone to throw snowballs at during Hogsmeade trips. When my first year ended, I wanted to stay the summer, I hated to say goodbye. I knew I wouldn't be allowed to send or receive letters. But the boys and I knew we'd see each other again in September."

"My friends and I have done that too!" she said. "Snowball fights."

"Always an enjoyable time," he said, though the truth was, he couldn't recall ever playing in the snow in his life. The only time he could recall getting hit with a snowball was when he was on the back of Quirrell's head under that stupid scarf, when a couple of imbeciles charmed snowballs to smack him in the face.

"Some of the young men I met t Hogwarts, I still count among my closest friends – or would, if they were…" He cleared his throat. "Cygnus Black, your grandfather, was one of the first fellow Slytherins with whom I connected. He was Head Boy when I was a fifth year prefect."

Hermione's face lit up. "My grandfather was Head Boy?"

He should have known this would please her. And it wasn't even a lie.

"Yes, he was indeed. He was far better with people than his daughter. More like Narcissa, good in a crowd. Everyone liked old Cygnus. But he had a knack for keeping others in line, too. A natural-born leader. Shame what's happened to him in recent years… since Druella passed."

"How did he feel about…" Hermione poked at her egg with her fork. "About someone he knew in school… _with_ his daughter?"

The Dark Lord chuckled. "He was the only Death Eater I've ever had hex me and live to tell the tale." This was almost true. In fact, Bellatrix had also hexed him a time or two. "That's a story for another time. Perhaps one to ask your mother."

"Perhaps." Hermione smiled.

"But I digress!" said the Dark Lord. "I did not ask you to breakfast to discuss my history with your mother, nor was it my intention to talk about that hotheaded, misguided Potter boy and his ginger sidekick."

"No?"

"No." He broke off a bit of toast. "You are eighteen now, Hermione. Entering your second year of adulthood. And, as much as it must sound strange to hear coming from one of your parents, I've grown quite fond of you over these last fifteen months."

She nearly dropped her fork. "You have?"

"I have. You remind me of your mother, when she was young, though she was entirely devoted to me while you are… torn. That's understandable, considering. And I accept it, difficult as its been for me to process. For both of us." He forced what he hoped was a fatherly smile. "There has been some adjustment, and I cannot say it has been good for my relationship with your mother, but we are committed to making you the best daughter, and the best witch, you can possibly be. Any questions?"

"Just one."

"Please, ask."

Hermione nodded, but it was a full thirty seconds before she was able to voice it.

"Do you love her?"

"Love her?" The question threw him, but he recovered quickly. "When she was your age, I knew her only as the daughter of a friend. Cygnus… well, as I said, it's unfortunate you're unable to know Cygnus as he was. I had no… personal… interest in her then, as she was too young. But, being a man, I could not help but notice that she was beautiful. And underappreciated. A brilliant witch, a brilliant mind, but she was expected to marry and have children and keep a lovely home. Not the life best suited for a fiery, intelligent woman like that. Like you!"

He chuckled and hoped this would be the end of the conversation, even though he hadn't actually answered her question.

Hermione smiled. She liked picturing her mother at her age. She liked thinking her mother was beautiful. Underappreciated. Brilliant. That was both how she felt and how she wanted to feel. Who wouldn't want to be beautiful? And with Harry and Ron, she often felt woefully underappreciated. And hadn't even Severus Snape said she was brilliant?

"I want more from you, too, Hermione. I've seen shades of greatness. Last week, you used the Cruciatus Curse on a tree. I was watching from the window. I was impressed. You have proven yourself trustworthy and – despite a couple of disastrous duels with Draco, which I can only attribute to your being out of practice – you have shown me you are more than capable with a wand. Capable of defending yourself. Of defending those you love, like your mother, your aunt. Your Muggle parents."

"My Mugg-"

"I failed to protect you both once. You and your mother." He lowered his head as if chastened, as if forlorn, and set down his fork. He could feel her eyes on him. She was enraptured. Perfect.

"What do you mean, Father?"

"When you were born, you were early, as I said. I had to be strategic to break her from Azkaban. It was not easy. At first, I did not move because I expected her to have a trial, or, at the very least, a hearing, as was customary by law. I knew I could easily free her from the Ministry, without risking the lives of any of my other Death Eaters. Forgive me, Hermione, forgive me, but I felt it would be irresponsible of me as a leader to risk the lives of other Followers to save a woman who could best be described as my mistress, especially as she was, for the moment, technically safe. Perhaps safer in her cell than she'd been in her parents' cottage home or at Malfoy Manor, where Order members could appear at any time, and do worse to her than they'd done to Narcissa. They'd already proven they didn't care if a woman was pregnant, unarmed, afraid; they would do her unspeakable harm."

Hermione felt hot, angry tears welling up in her eyes. She shredded her toast, having lost her appetite. He, on the other hand, took a bite of blood pudding. She had to wait for him to swallow to continue.

"I was biding my time. I did not expect them to keep her locked up so long without a hearing, though. Breaking her out of Azkaban in her condition would be dangerous, more dangerous than it would have been to free any other prisoner. Pregnant women should not apparate, nor would it be safe for her to travel by boat over that freezing water. Risking drowning, Dementors? For the first time in my life, my dear girl, I did not know what to do. But I thought I had time."

One of those hot tears wound its way down Hermione's cheek, landing on her lip. She licked it away.

"She gave birth early. 'Good,' I thought. 'I'll get them both out, now.' But only minutes after I received word of your birth, I received word of your death. I was furious. Then I was told Bellatrix had died, too."

Hermione gasped. "You thought she'd died, too?"

"In childbirth. That's what I was told." He was lying, of course, but it was clear from her wide, watery eyes and the horrified O of her mouth that she did not suspect a thing. "I was despondent. I'd never felt loss before, you understand. I was but minutes old when my own mother passed, and as a child the orphanage matron let me believe I'd killed her, that it was my fault, so my feelings as far as she was concerned fell more along the lines of bitterness and guilt than love and loss."

"But at some point, you learned my mother was alive?"

"They brought her to the Ministry, finally, to stand trial. One of my Ministry contacts informed me straight away and, without even concocting a plan – unusual for me, as I am typically the type to plot, to research, to be prepared, like you – I stormed into the Ministry and rescued her. But we both believed it to be too late to help you. We both believed you'd been buried by the prison. We grieved together, she more than I, as I did not know how, and, frankly, it isn't the same. I hadn't seen you, hadn't held you, hadn't carried you inside me all those months. I grieved the person you could have been. Her heart was broken because she's lost the person you were."

"And Dumbledore ordered it so," whispered Hermione. "He admitted it. He wanted me killed. A baby. A newborn! My mother didn't deserve that. Nothing she did could have warranted hurting her-"

"Hurting you," said the Dark Lord. "An innocent. But his cruelty knew no bounds. 'For the greater good,' he believed. You read the book."

"Yes." She picked up her fork to stab at her eggs, but she still had no desire to eat them. He was making his way through his meal, though. She tried a sip of pumpkin juice but it burned like acid going down. She felt too ill to enjoy the taste, one she usually enjoyed.

"Eighteen years ago today was meant to have been the day you died, but it was the day you survived, my dear girl. Your birthday and the day you cheated death for the first time. The second time, you were thirteen years old, Petrified, but not killed, because you were smart enough not to look that Basilisk in the face."

She didn't question how he knew all this. There was something sort of comforting in believing he was all-knowing, the way she used to picture Dumbledore. And there was something sort of comforting in the notion that he knew her, that he knew all about her, as a father should.

"You cheated death a third time when in danger of the werewolf, when you used the Time Turner, clever girl. And again when you held your own against Dolohov, one of my best, a man who feels mortified now, knowing who it was he attacked, and you've proven yourself twice against Rodolphus, who'll never lay another hand on you, not because he fears _my_ wrath, but because he fears _yours_."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. She sipped coffee and nibbled toast crust. Her mind was full of thoughts flying faster than a Nimbus 2001.

"Have I answered your questions?" he asked.

"All except one," she said softly. "Do you _love_ my mother?"

He sighed. So he hadn't gotten away with not answering.

Might as well tell her what she wanted to hear.

It was, after all, her birthday.

"I have loved your mother for a very long time," he lied. "Though I can't say I know quite how to show it. And I believe you know she loves me."

"Yes," said Hermione, looking and sounding incredibly relieved. "She says so often."

"Love is…" He cleared his throat. "I was not raised with love. It was as unfamiliar to me as the wizarding world was to you on your eleventh birthday. But I've never felt for anyone else the way I do for your mother." This was, in actuality, the truth, but it felt somehow wrong, weak, to be admitting it aloud. He finished his food in silence, while she shredded her toast across from him at the table.

When she'd sipped her last sip of pumpkin juice, she set her glass down and asked, "Father?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"You said there was going to be a lesson?"

His pallid face broke into a grin.

"Indeed! Today, your eighteenth birthday, is the anniversary of the first time you cheated death." He stood, still smiling, and gestured for her to do the same. "And this, my dear daughter, is the first day of the rest of your life."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

"You angered him?" Narcissa massaged the cold healing salve into her sister's cheek and temple.

"Clearly," said Bellatrix, wincing.

"I wish you wouldn't."

"I wish I wouldn't, too." Bellatrix hissed through her teeth. It hurt to have her sister pressing on the forming bruise, but she knew if it wasn't taken care of now, it would be a swollen purple mess later. It might still be. The older the healing salve was, the less likely it was to do the whole job.

Narcissa screwed the cap back on the container, given to her by Severus for the first time all those years ago after her attack. She had very little left, despite having used it as sparingly as possible over the last eighteen years. She hated to have to ask him for more. She hated the thought of it all being gone. Even though it was completely irrational to have formed an attachment to a tub of healing salve, she didn't want more, she wanted _this_ batch.

"Lucius and I have been talking."

"Have you?"

"He's hurt because I didn't tell him when it happened, but he understands. He says he would have gone after them, unquestionably, and he understands he would have likely ended up dead or in Azkaban as a result. I asked if he forgives me. He said I have nothing to seek forgiveness for. He still loves me."

"I've never known a man to love his wife more than he loves you." Bellatrix closed her eyes. The salve tingled and slightly burned, though not unpleasantly.

"Your daughter is eighteen today." Narcissa had a knack for abruptly changing the subject. Bellatrix was used to it. "Have you been down to see her yet?"

"Not yet. But I've arranged the perfect gift… provided the Dark Lord doesn't change his mind about letting me give it to her." She sighed. "I should not have made him hit me. If he takes back her gift, it's my fault. It's my fault for angering him."

"He shouldn't hit you, Bella." Narcissa cupped her sister's cheeks. "Look at me." Their eyes met. "I realize none of those who've followed him are immune to his wrath, but you – you're not quite like the rest of us. He takes you to bed, still, doesn't he?"

"He does."

"And he treats you as one would a wife? Or, at the very least, a mistress?"

Bellatrix thought back to that day not so long ago when they were hiding out, when she was reading the magazine, when they were exploring each other like teenagers. When it felt like it used to. But she also thought about this morning, and about the last time he'd hit her, and the time before that.

"He's not the same as he once was," she answered finally. "Before… he never hit me before. Before his return, before he… He is more powerful now, he assures me. He might even be immortal. But he's…"

"Less human?" whispered Narcissa.

Bellatrix was too terrified by the thought to nod, but they both knew her silent response was affirmation.

"How can you love him?" whispered Narcissa. With her thumb, she brushed an errant tear from Bella's face. "How can you love a man who hurts you?"

"I don't know any other way to feel about him," said Bellatrix. "When I was in Azkaban this second time, all those years, I told myself every day that he would return, that he would come for me. That he loved me, even though he doesn't say it. And I've long loved him. If I didn't love him, if I hadn't been able to believe… You don't know what it's like in there. The constant crying, the screaming. Starvation. Madness. The cold of the air and the cold of the Death Eaters. Abusive guards. They put me back in the cell where I'd birthed and lost my daughter, but they'd covered up the window so I couldn't see the sun. I stayed in that depressing cell for all those years, Cissy. I battled madness. I hallucinated. I scratched at the walls and at my skin and, once, at the eyes of a guard who came too close; I was soundly punished for that. Without my love for the Dark Lord, without telling myself he loved me too, I wouldn't have survived. That love was all I had."

"But it's not now," whispered Narcissa, still gently holding her sister's face. "You have me. Your nephew. Your daughter. And _we_ love you. Isn't that enough?"

"I don't know," answered Bellatrix softly. "I don't know."

 **19 September, 1980**

 **(seventeen years ago)**

Bellatrix had cried all night.

And the Dark Lord held her.

Now it was morning. Her body was tired, her eyes were dry, her cheeks were ruddy. She had no tears left, but the heartache hadn't gone away. They sat on the couch, she and the Dark Lord, in the parlor of her parents' home. Her parents were on holiday.

"We'll make another," said the Dark Lord, as if it were that easy. "When the war is over…"

"I mustn't have cleared her throat properly. She must have choked on… on bile, or… or whatever it is babies have in their throats before they're born. Or it's because she was too early. She wasn't as early as my sister, Nyx, the one who lived six days. But she was a bit early. A fortnight. Perhaps it's because of the Dementors. I know that Auror said being surrounded by Dementors hurt his pregnant mother, and him, too. If I hadn't been arrested…"

He pulled her to him, his arms around her body. He was no good at comforting people. He had no use for it, for making people 'feel better' or wiping their tears or offering soothing words, but with her, about this, he was, at least, willing to try.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I'm sorry I failed you. I let them arrest me. I let our baby die. I'm sorry. I'm sor-"

"Stop." He kissed her temple. "You did not fail me."

"She would have been a year old today."

"I know." He knew because she'd said it dozens of times already today, but even if she hadn't been dwelling on it, he would have remembered. While he'd had no desire to be a father, he had been, as she grew rounder, curious about the baby. He wondered whether it would resemble him. He wondered whether it would change her. He wondered whether he'd be consumed by jealousy as the baby deviated her attention from him to it.

He had no use for an heir. Heirs, like women, could be dangerous.

But he'd wondered.

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix was crying.

She was in the library, curled up at the end of the couch with a book pressed to her chest. Obviously not one plucked from the Malfoy's shelves; this was a smut-infused mystery about a wizard who's been killing Squib prostitutes, and the female Auror who goes undercover to catch him. She wasn't reading it at the moment, but had it in hand in case anyone should come in. She couldn't spend another moment in the bedroom she shared with the Dark Lord, she couldn't stand another moment being regarded with pity by her baby sister, and she couldn't stand the thought of a single moment spent being quizzed about her bruised face by her disappointed daughter.

He entered.

"I've been looking for you."

She glanced down at the Dark Mark on her arm. "You haven't Summoned me."

"No." He stood at the far end of the couch, opposite her, but came no closer. He regarded her curiously. "What happened to your face?"

"You're serious?" She wiped away an errant tear. "You hit me, remember? This morning."

"Not hard enough to bruise, surely."

She put a gentle hand up to her own cheek. "It was hard enough."

"Was it?"

He cocked his head ever-so-slightly to one side, and she almost smiled. He looked like Hermione – or, rather, she looked like him – when she was trying to puzzle something out.

"You haven't been to see our daughter, yet," he said. "It's her birthday."

"I'm aware." Bellatrix sniffled. "I can't see her. Not like this. I'm too ashamed."

"Ashamed?" He seemed genuinely perplexed by this, too. "Whatever for?"

Anger swelled inside her, but she forced herself to temper it. Her eyes met his.

"You _hit me_ this morning. _Again_. I'm no better than a battered Muggle wife, no better than Severus' mother, who traded her own magic for an abusive man. I assured Hermione the last time you hurt me would be _the last time._ I've told her your views on men using their hands on women. I've sworn to her that you promised me, _never again_. When she sees my face, what shall I tell her?" She looked away, her palm still over the bruise high on her cheekbone. "I don't want her to see how weak I am."

"Bella…"

She closed her eyes, but could feel him coming closer. The couch depressed as he settled to her side.

"We must not have that. I do not want her thinking you weak, but, more importantly, I do not want her to view us as liars."

"Us?"

"I should not have raised my hand to you this morning. I lost my head. I was wrong."

Her breath hitched in her throat. Had he really said what she thought she just heard? She opened her eyes. Hers met his.

"My Lord?" she whispered.

He cupped her injured cheek, more gently than he'd touched her in longer than she could remember.

"We shall tell the girl you were attacked while out last night, but that you fought off your unidentified assailant. She'll not think you're weak if she believes you won."

"You Summoned me to you alone for the first time twenty-six-years and four months ago." A small smiled formed on her lips. "I felt I'd won, then."

"How could you have won when you were the prize?" His mouth captured hers, and though she knew he was manipulating her as surely as they both did their daughter, she kissed him back, and forgave him, and felt nothing but love.

They had progressed to snogging like teenagers when the library door opened. In walked Draco and Hermione. Draco dropped his butterbeer. Hermione whipped out her wand and put a stasis charm on it before it hit the floor, then summoned it to her.

"Impressive wand work," said the Dark Lord, pulling himself away from his mistress and into a standing position. "Something wrong, Draco?"

"I… sir, I… my Lord… I…" He cleared his throat, looking so uncomfortable Hermione barely stifled a giggle. "I've just had a flashback to my childhood. My parents. I… I'm sorry."

"You may be excused, Draco," said the Dark Lord. Draco nodded, grabbed the butterbeer from Hermione, and hurried out.

"Hermione," said Bellatrix. She stood and opened her arms for a hug from her daughter. "Happy birthday!"

"Mother!" Hermione accepted the hug, but upon pulling back, asked with concern, "What happened to your face?"

Bellatrix glanced at the Dark Lord. "I was attacked last night. By an unknown assailant. He took me by surprise. While I was at the Muggle shops. I'd gone into a closed park to apparate. He caught me there."

"No!" Hermione stepped back, horrified. She looked to the Dark Lord for confirmation, which he gave in the form of a nod. "Are you hurt badly?"

"Not too badly," said Bellatrix.

"She emerged victorious," said the Dark Lord, slipping an arm around her as if proud, protective. "She stunned the figure and disapparated."

"You didn't kill him?" asked Hermione.

"I do not kill without justification," said Bellatrix. "My goal in the moment was survival, not vengeance. I thought only of making it home… to you."

The Dark Lord hid a smile. That last bit was a nice touch.

"If I'd been there, I might have killed them," said Hermione. "If there's one thing I've learned over the last year, it's that innocent women are victimized far too often in war, and in the worst ways. We shouldn't stand for it! That's why, this morning, the Dark Lord – Father – started teaching me to properly perform an Angori Vinculum, the restraint hex. He says I show great promise."

"Indeed, she does," he said. "Draco will need a day's recovery after their next duel."

"Oh, I don't intend to use this one on Draco," Hermione said, her eyes darkening. "I have an entirely different wizard in mind."

Bellatrix, delighted, enveloped her in another hug.

The Dark Lord stood back, surveying the scene.

She wasn't the perfect daughter. But they'd make use of her yet.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **As some of you know, my grandmother died a few months ago. This derailed my posting, but I started again early this year (2019). Then, my grandfather became sick, and just a few short months after his wife, he passed away too. I was very close with both of them and in the end was helping to care for them, her in the ICU and him in hospice care. It was a draining and difficult time, and combined with other things, led to a general overwhelmed feeling for me and depression, among other things.**

 **During this time my debut novel was traditionally published, which was exciting but also a lot of work (and additionally draining). I have, over this last year, experienced writer's block for the first time ever. It has been difficult and weird, but I think I am finally coming through it.**

 **I went back and edited and rewrote and reposted this entire fic to get myself back into the mindset and to make it better - THANK YOU to those who pointed out continuity errors or typos. I have a better timeline and notes file now.**

 **I will be putting up the next 100% original chapter on Saturday, the 31 of August. In the meantime, please feel free to read (or re-read) these chapters, or at least skim through 23-27 to find the parts that weren't posted before, if you can. It'll make the fic less confusing later on. :)**

 **Thank you to those who have reached out via PM or on Facebook and to those who have left such lovely reviews. You're the reason I was determined to come back to this fic and start posting regularly again. I am excited about the direction in which it's headed and hope you will be too.**

 **Thanks again,**

 **-AL**


	28. BIRTHDAY PRESENTS

**A/N:**

 _ **PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!**_

 **I've spent the last few weeks editing and re-uploading every chapter of this fic. Chapters 1-17 and the prologue have not changed save for fixed typos and a couple of continuity issues, but I have ADDED and moved sections in chapters 18-22, and then rewritten much of what was 23-24. Those chapters are now chapters 23-27.**

 **If you read this prior to 27 Aug, 2019, you don't have to re-read prologue-22, but probably want to at least skim through 23-27 before reading the 100% new chapter, 28, which will be posted on Saturday, 31 August. If you read this fic for the first time after 31 August, just keep going and ignore this a/n.**

 **Thank you for your understanding! An author's note at the end of the THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER explains more.**

 **-AL**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:**

 **BIRTHDAY PRESENTS**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape wasn't typically the type to have erotic dreams, but shortly after sunrise on the nineteenth of September, he awoke from a whopper of one. His cock was painfully confined by his cotton pajama pants, which he wore only in case there was an emergency that forced him out of bed in a flash, as he preferred far less on his body at night.

He groaned, stretched, and walked himself straight to the shower, intending to turn the cold water on full blast and wash away the sins of his subconscious.

But once he was under the stream, he couldn't force himself to go cold instead of hot… and he couldn't force the images from his dream out of his mind.

She was kneeling before him, wearing that dress from her seventeenth birthday party last year. One year ago today. They were in the library at Malfoy Manor. Music was playing distantly; a party must be going on. Perhaps another birthday party. But not that one last year, as she was older in this fantasy. Not a student. A woman.

She had his cock in her hand, her mouth laving over the tip. She was taking him deep into her throat. Then she was sucking her balls into her mouth, one at a time.

He lathered up his hands, ignoring the flannel hanging on its hook, and began washing his body… beginning with the part of his anatomy most in need of attention.

He closed his eyes, tipped back his head, stroked his throbbing cock, and moaned her name.

It was her birthday today. Eighteenth. He'd have to give her a gift.

He'd picked out something practical, something he knew she'd appreciate.

He'd much rather be giving her something else.

He groaned and sped up the movement of his hand. He was almost there. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, envisioning her finishing him off, licking him clean.

Fuck.

His Muggle father's family had been strong believers in Heaven.

If they were right about the existence of the afterlife, he was relatively certain he'd be going to hell.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Hermione had been the recipient of a number of birthday presents she enjoyed, but none more than she would the one given to her by her biological parents on this, her eighteenth birthday.

"A bedroom?" she asked her, taking it in. "For me?"

"For you," said Bellatrix.

The Dark Lord was not present. After a demonstration of the lesson he'd given her and lunch, which the three ate together, he'd gone out, leaving her mother to do the gift-giving.

"It was your idea, after all," he'd said, pressing his nearly nonexistent lips to Bellatrix's temple. He then bid them both adieu, promising to return in time for the party.

"Yours is the only occupied bedroom on this floor, save for ours," said Bellatrix. She took her daughter's hand and squeezed it. "We'll have it heavily warded, to keep you safe. From the fireplace you can only Floo to other rooms in the manor, and the only room from which anyone can Floo into yours is ours. This means, if you Floo from here to the library, you'll have to walk back. It's not a perfect system, but it was devised by your father personally, for your protection."

"This is all mine?" Hermione grasped her mother's hand tightly, as if the woman might disappear otherwise, and with her, the present.

"All yours," said Bellatrix.

Unlike her dungeon cell, this bedroom was massive. Two rooms, plus a full bathroom with both a standing shower with dual showerheads and, around the corner, a claw foot tub. There was a small balcony off the sitting room, from which she could sit at a round, glass-topped table and sip tea and stare out over the grounds, or read while the autumn sun shone above her. The sitting room itself included a couch, two chairs, an oak desk with several draws already filled with parchment, ink, and other necessities, a table with full-sized cauldron for potions work, and an entire wall of bookshelves, mostly unfilled, "but we'll fix that," Bellatrix assured her. "I wanted to be sure to put on it only what you'd want to read or need for school."

In the second room, the bedroom, she had a dresser and a wardrobe, two large windows facing the same direction as the balcony, a plushy queen-sized bed with light purple sheets and a dark purple comforter, and even a small area just for Crookshanks, with a cat bed, a cat tree, a toy basket, a flowing water fountain, a large covered litter box that self-cleaned (keeping her room from smelling foul as the cellar sometimes did), and built-in shelves for his food.

There was a bookcase in here, too, a smaller one, one to which all of her books from the cell had already been moved. On top of it were three framed photographs.

One of her from her last birthday party, dancing with Professor Snape. She hadn't even realized someone had brought a camera.

One of her with playing chess with cousin Draco while Crookshanks batted at the pieces. This had been taken by her mother.

And one of Bellatrix, pregnant, glowing and giggling beside an even-more-heavily pregnant Narcissa.

"I don't have any baby pictures of you," said Bellatrix apologetically, her eyes on that last one. "And that's the only one taken while I was expecting. It's the only one I have of _us_."

Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Do you like it?" asked Bellatrix. "Your new chambers. Do you like your birthday gift?"

"It's the lovel… the pretty… the most wond…" Hermione threw her arms around Bellatrix. "Oh, Mum, it's the best room I've ever had!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1990**

 **(seven years ago)**

Hermione was reading, as usual, when she saw the cat.

She was positioned in her favorite tree – she being Hermione, not the cat – with her legs dangling over either side of a thick branch, almost like riding a bike. Her back was to the trunk and the book in her hands, Matilda by Roald Dahl, was well-loved but in good condition. She'd gotten for her birthday two years prior. Exactly two years prior.

She was eleven today, Wednesday, and there was no school because of the fire that broke out the day before. Curious, that fire. One moment, Hermione had been in the girls' toilet, about to receive a pummeling from a group of bullies who weren't too happy with her for telling their teacher she'd done the entirety of their group project on her own, when suddenly the room filled with smoke and teachers in the hall were shouting, "Stay calm, students! This way! Follow me!"

Curious things happened like that to Hermione sometimes. Curious things happened to Matilda, too. That's why it was her favorite book. She even told her parents the book had taught her to move a pencil with her mind. They didn't believe her, she'd had to show them.

And even then, they'd tried to find out how she 'really' did the trick.

She was on the chapter in which Bruce has to eat a whole cake when she first spotted the cat. It was sitting straighter and more regally than cats usually did, and it was staring at her. The markings around its eyes reminded her of eyeglasses and she giggled, picturing a kitty with poor vision. The cat's head cocked to the side as if it was wondering what was funny. Hermione's eyes widened.

It came toward her.

She watched it carefully.

It sat in her driveway and there it stayed until her mum and dad arrived home from work. They were dentists who shared a practice not too far away. They'd let her stay home unaccompanied today, since she was eleven now, and very mature for her age.

"Mroww," said the cat.

"Go home, kitty," said her dad.

"Maybe it's lost," said her mum. "Does it have a collar?"

"I don't think so." Her dad bent down and reached out to grab the cat. She backed up.

"Pretty cat," said her mum. "If we don't find her owners, we should keep it. Hermione's been wanting a pet."

"Hermione?" called Dad. They hadn't spotted her in the tree yet. He opened the front door. "Hermione, do you know whose cat this is?"

"I'm here, Dad!" She climbed out of the tree. She hadn't been far off the ground as she wasn't terribly big on heights. She bounded over to them, Matilda tucked into her arm. "That cat's been here all day. If we can't find her family, can we keep her?"

"You sound like Mom," said Dad, chuckling.

Hermione chuckled, too. She liked reminding Dad of Mom. She liked feeling like her parents.

"Let's bring it in," he added. "Looks like it might rain."

"I've got it," said Mom. She tried to scoop the cat into her arms but it shook its head, shot them a reproachful look, and walked into the house through the open door all on her own.

"I think she speaks English!" said Hermione, excited. "She's an interesting cat."

The Grangers and their daughter followed the cat into the living room, where she hopped up onto an easy chair.

"Oh, we don't allow animals on the furniture," said Mom.

Dad reached for the cat. In a blink, though, the cat was gone, and he had his arms around a dark-haired older woman wearing a gray dress, black boots, and an expression of annoyance.

"Would you mind unhanding me?" the cat – er, woman – asked.

"What…?" Hermione's dad jumped back.

"How did… where did…?" Hermione's mother had gone pale.

"I knew you weren't a typical cat!" said Hermione. She placed Matilda on the end table. "You've been watching me all day, even when that mouse ran by, even when those dogs were barking. You're not the most convincing cat I've ever seen, but your markings are interesting."

"It's… she…" Mum's mouth gaped open.

"But that's impossible," said Dad.

"My name is Minerva McGonagall." The woman held out her hand. The Grangers each shook it, looking dazed. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a folded envelope, which she handed to Dad. "I sent you a letter explaining I'd be stopping in today. Did you not receive it? I'm the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"I thought that was a joke," said Dad. "That letter went straight into the rubbish bin."

"No joke," said Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. "You're eleven today, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded.

"Happy birthday, then. Would I be rude to ask for a glass of water, or perhaps of a cup of tea? It's been a long day."

"Alright," said Mum, looking too stunned to question the request, though she made no move toward the kitchen.

"You're a cat headmistress?" asked Dad, equally bemused. "Is the whole school taught by animals?"

"I'm happy to answer any of your questions, but first, that water, please."

She waited until Mum brought in a pitcher with four glasses.

"Or tea?" asked Mum, still perplexed. "Do… cats… drink… tea?"

"I'm only a cat on occasion," said Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. She sipped the water, then smiled. "I'd like to congratulate young Miss Granger, here. Hermione."

"For what?" asked Hermione. "For turning eleven?"

"No!" Deputy Headmistress McGonagall continued to smile. "You're a witch, Miss Granger!"

Hermione's face lit up.

"A what?" asked Dad.

"I don't understand," said Mum.

"A witch!" repeated Deputy Headmistress McGonagall pleasantly. "Are you surprised?"

"Yes," said Mum.

"Yes," said Dad.

"No!" said Hermione. "I always knew I was different! I always knew I could do things others can't!" She picked up Matilda and hugged it to her chest. "I can move a pencil with my mind!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Cygnus Black returned to Malfoy Manor for the birthday dinner of his eldest living grandchild, and again he was confused about her identity, though this time he knew she was not Druella.

"You look more like your mother each day," he said, leaning close to kiss her cheek. "How lucky we are to have three beautiful daughters to make us proud."

"Father, come to the table," Bellatrix took him by the elbow and steered him in the right direction.

"Druella, are you hiding a bruise?" He gently touched her cheek. She winced and jerked away. He tried again to touch her face. "Did I do that?" he whispered, horrified. "I've tried to stop drinking, Druella, I've tried, but sometimes-"

"You didn't do it," said Bellatrix testily. She pulled out his chair and practically manhandled him into it. "I fell."

Hermione glanced uneasily at her mother. Earlier, when she'd pressed her mother for more information about what happened, Bellatrix told her again that she'd been attacked. Though she couldn't identify him, she described a young man, stocky, with a deep tan, many freckles, and long ginger hair.

"Charlie Weasley?" asked Hermione, shocked.

"Could have been a Weasley," Bellatrix had said offhandedly. "Can't be sure. I wasn't looking. I told you, my focus was on getting away." She'd smiled then, and kissed the back of Hermione's hand. "And I wanted to be home before you woke up this morning. I didn't quite make it, but I was happy to learn you'd eaten with your father."

Hermione had bought this, having no reason not to, but Bellatrix worried too many questions would unravel her story. She wasn't convinced the girl had no natural skills as a Legillimens, after all. Though the magic was rare, the ability ran in the Black family and the Dark Lord was one of the best to ever live. She should have inherited it. She knew she ought to work with her on this, just as both Snape and the Dark Lord had worked with her on honing her Occlumency abilities (that, unlike Legilimency, was entirely a learned skill) but she was remiss to do so, as she didn't want the girl rifling around her mind.

"Druella…?" asked Cygnus, still worrying.

"I'm not Druella!" Bellatrix huffed. "Cissy, can't you sit with him?"

"Yes, of course," said Narcissa, already sounding tired. "Draco!" she called. "Help me with… Oh."

"He's at school," said Hermione.

"Yes, I remember." Narcissa sighed. Those three words were the first she'd spoken to Hermione in over six weeks.

"He writes me. He's worried about you."

Narcissa settled beside her father and glanced wearily up at her niece. "Is he?"

"He says you've been the best mother he could have hoped for. It kills him to see you in pain."

She smiled sadly. "He's been the best son. But I've hardly been the best mother. My daughter… If I were any sort of mother, I'd still have my daughter."

Hermione quickly took the seat beside her. "What happened to her, Auntie? What happened to Diana?"

"I can't." She turned her back on the girl, twisting in her chair to face her father. "We're having French onion soup tonight, Father. Your favorite!"

"Soup?" he asked blankly.

"French onion soup."

"Soup," he said. "Yes, Eloise, soup would be lovely."

" _Narcissa_ , Father. I'm _Narcissa_ , your _daughter_. Eloise was your mother-in-law."

He chortled. "Please, Eloise. I believe I would know my own daughter." He reached for his water goblet and gulped several times, though there was nothing in it.

"Hermione!" Bellatrix was calling her from across the room. "Our guests are arriving. It would be customary for you to greet them with me." She darted a look to the Dark Lord. "With us."

"With us," he reiterated, smiling, holding out an arm, drawing her to him.

Hermione moved closer, but had to fight back a shiver when he put his arm around her. Without thinking, she reached down and took her mother's hand.

"I believe you remember the Rowles," said Bellatrix, as Euphemia and Thorfinn entered the large dining hall.

"Of course." Hermione reached out her hand to shake Euphemia's. The woman reciprocated reproachfully. Hermione smiled. She was determined to be on her best behavior tonight. She did not want to do anything to jeopardize her night – the first night she would spend in her brand-new bedroom, with real windows and fresh air and a large tub and a little library all her own. If she had to drip sugar all over every single one of these Death Eaters at dinner, she would. If she had to shake hands or hug or make friends, she was willing.

Evangeline Chaucer arrived next, alone. Hermione could feel the furious heat radiating from her mother toward the woman. Evangeline smiled, nodded at them, and moved quickly across the room to join the Lestrange brothers. Hermione's stomach dropped. They must have come in through the other set of doors; she hadn't noticed them. She hadn't seen Rodolphus since she'd tortured him with her parents' permission. He didn't so much as glance her way now, which suited her fine. She never wanted to make eye contact with him again.

"You know I did not sleep with her," the Dark Lord said sharply, under his breath. "Calm yourself, Bella."

"I'm perfectly calm, my Lord." Her smile was forced and her hand gripped Hermione's tighter. "I simply don't like her because she's a slag and I don't want that sort of lifestyle around my child."

"Mrs. Lestrange…" He hardly even moved his mouth to speak. "Stop."

It was a warning when he called her by that name, even Hermione could sense it, though the girl didn't know there'd been a time in the past when using Bellatrix's married name and title had been like foreplay for them.

And she never would know, as Bellatrix didn't consider it any of her business.

"Tom," said Bellatrix coolly.

He sent her a sharp look. She cocked one eyebrow.

"I thought I could call you by your former name when in the presence of our daughter, _darling_."

"When in her presence _alone_ , if you do not mind. _Dear_."

Hermione bit her lip. Her Muggle parents had had a fight like this in front of her once, when she was about nine. Though neither had said a cross word to the other, they sat across the kitchen table at dinner and talked through their teeth, as if she wouldn't realize anything was wrong so long as they didn't scream or throw dishes like the neighbors did during their rows.

Finally, someone entered Hermione was actually _happy_ to see.

"Professor Snape!"

"Severus," hissed the Dark Lord in greeting. He took one of Severus' hands between his. "Glad you could come."

"Thank you for the invitation." He nodded at Bellatrix. "Lestrange."

"Snape."

He turned to Hermione. He did not smile, not with his mouth, but his eyes had a twinkle they hadn't when looking upon either of her parents. "Hermione. Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Professor. Before you leave…" Was this too forward, what she was about to ask? "I've been given new living chambers. I have a sitting room with an academic corner. I spent this afternoon setting it up. I even have a table for potions brewing, fits three pewter cauldrons at once, though I have only one to start. Would you be willing to gift me a tutoring session? I worry my mind will go to waste without education."

"Can't have a great mind going to waste," he said. "Provided it is not scandalously late when dinner is through, I would be most interested in a tour of your new accommodations." He looked to the Dark Lord. "Assuming this is where I'll now be tutoring you."

"Yes," said the Dark Lord. "And I have decided to increase my time with the girl as well. Her talent is going unused at the moment and an unworked limb begins to atrophy."

"The Dark… er… Father…" She smiled at him, though it wasn't easy. She didn't suppose it would ever be easy. Not like with her mother. "Father and I spent nearly two hours in the drawing room this morning, while Mother was out. He's teaching me…" She broke off. "Am I allowed to tell him-"

"Yes."

"To protect myself against Dark Magic. First, we experimented with a restraint hex, which went well, but he also wants me to learn to fight back against the Imperius Curse. He's afraid if the Order or Dumbledore's Army manage to kidnap me, they'll use the Imperius to control me, either to make it easier to take me in, or… or for more nefarious reasons." She stood a little taller. "He said there have been threats, but he does not wish for me to live my life in fear. I've been in captivity for my own protection long enough. Now that we don't have to fear the Ministry or… or Dumbledore…" (It still pained her to think of him in that tower. Confessing to wanting her killed. Falling to his own death.) "I'm safer than I was, but not safe. He wants me to be _safe_ , should anything happen when I'm out with Mother."

"The Dark Lord clearly knows what is best for you."

"There have been threats," repeated Bellatrix. "Our sources tell us, with her survival confirmed, there are those who wish to take her from me. From us. They want to use her as propaganda. This, after Potter told the world she was brainwashed and mad." Bellatrix looked furious. "They want to get her back, force her to pretend she's defected back to the side of Dumbledore's supporters, and then they intend to kill her and blame us. They feel it's the only way they can explain away…" Bellatrix's lip curled in disgust. "That vile boy is exactly like his father. The Order used, abused, and discarded my sister in 1980 and they want to do the same to my daughter now."

"Let us discuss this another time," said the Dark Lord. "This is to be a happy occasion. The eighteenth birthday of our only child. Come, Hermione." He led her toward the table. At some point while they were talking, her uncle had entered, as had a woman with two girls who looked to be around Hermione's age, with whom Lucius and Narcissa were chatting.

"Ah, excellent!" The Dark Lord nodded toward the woman and the girls. "Bellatrix, will you introduce Hermione?"

"Hermione…" Bellatrix pulled her over to the trio. "This is Adele Greengrass. She was one of Cissy's friends at Hogwarts. And these are her daughters, Morgana and Maisey."

"Lovely to make your acquaintance," said the slightly taller of the two. "I remember you from Hogwarts. You got Petrified when Maisey and I were fifth years."

"You're the same age as one of our sisters, Daphne," said the shorter girl. "We've got another, Astoria. They're both at Hogwarts still. We're out, obviously." She smiled. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Morgana. She's Maisey. We don't look a thing alike but people mix us up all the same."

In truth, the twins looked an awful lot alike, save for the two inch height difference and a smattering or random freckles across Maisey's nose and cheeks, but Hermione didn't think she'd have trouble remembering which was which.

"Let us be seated," said the Dark Lord, gesturing to the table. "The meal will begin momentarily."

While the Greengrass girls were taking their seats, Bellatrix leaned close to Hermione to whisper in her ear.

"This is Draco's gift. He thought you'd need friends around your own age with him back to school. I spoke with Narcissa so she wrote to Adele. The Greengrasses have four daughters and one son. I thought, if you and the twins get on…" Bellatrix shrugged. "I've never been terribly popular with other girls my age… or anyone, really… but I thought you might enjoy having them over to swim or play chess or… read. Whatever it is friends are supposed to do. When I suggested it to the Dark Lord, he thought it was a good idea."

"Thank you." Hermione wanted to throw her arms around Bellatrix again, as she had in her bedroom earlier, but restrained herself.

During dinner, Bellatrix sat to the Dark Lord's right, across from Severus. Morgana sat beside Hermione with Maisey to her other side, and the three chatted for much of the meal.

Across the table, Severus tried to pay attention to the rest of the guests, but found his eyes wandering back in his pupil's direction. He watched her mouth as she spoke, those pretty pink lips, full and glossy… they'd look spectacular wrapped around his…

"Happy birthday, Andromeda!" said Cygnus Black loudly, raising his glass, sloshing wine over the edge and down his arm. "I can't tell you how glad your mother and I are that you decided against marrying the Mudblood after all!"

"Father," said Narcissa, sounding exasperated. "Andromeda is-"

"Is glad you're glad," Hermione cut in, smiling. "Thank you."

He was beaming. "You always were my favorite daughter, Andromeda."

"Thanks, Dad," said Bellatrix sarcastically, though she didn't look upset.

Narcissa laughed for the first time in months.

"Happy birthday," cheerful Cygnus said again, raising his glass.

The Dark Lord raised his glass, too, prompting the rest of the guests to do the same.

"Happy Birthday!"

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1991**

 **(six years ago)**

Hermione had been at Hogwarts for less than three weeks, and while it wasn't quiet everything she'd imagined, it was, in many ways, pure bliss.

She loved her classes, especially Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall and Charms with Professor Flitwick. She loved her four-poster bed in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory. She loved her toasty common room with its red and gold accents. She loved the food.

And she LOVED the library.

She hadn't made friends yet, though the other girls in her House and year were perfectly nice to her. And she sometimes felt a bit overwhelmed in Herbology and Potions, in which lessons were harder to master from books (practical experience was needed), but she was determined to get top marks across the board.

Today was her twelfth birthday. Her mum and dad sent a card and presents – new quills, not that she needed them yet, and Muggle sweets, and Dickens' Oliver Twist, one of her favorites – and, all in all, it was a good day.

In the early evening, Professor McGonagall invited her to her office for tea and biscuits. And conversation.

"I like to check in with my Muggleborn students," she said, holding out a tin of ginger newts. Hermione took two. "How are you faring?"

"My classes are going well," said Hermione. "I was the first to manage a levitation charm – swish and flick! – and while I'm a bit frustrated by Professor Snape, my homework has all been done to his satisfaction."

"Frustrated?"

"He calls on students who haven't raised their hands," pouted Hermione. "And ignores those of us who know the answers!"

"Ah. Yes." Professor McGonagall chuckled. "I can see how that might be frustrating. Tell me, how are you and the other Gryffindor girls getting on? I know there are only three of you in your first year."

"I think we're on our way to becoming friends," said Hermione, though she didn't meet the professor's eye.

"I could introduce you to some of the older girls," said Professor McGonagall. "Angelina Johnson is a Quidditch player."

"I'm not really one for sports, Professor."

"Liesl Kuhn runs the gobstones club."

"I don't think I'm one for gobstones, either."

McGonagall nodded. "Johanna Carter is Muggleborn, too. Third year. She had a difficult adjustment. Would you like to talk to her about the transition?"

"No, thank you," said Hermione politely. "I'm fine, honestly, Professor."

"If you change your mind…" Professor McGonagall let the sentence go unended. "Now, that aside, I believe today is your birthday?"

"Yes!" Hermione beamed. "Twelve."

"Happy birthday." Professor McGonagall handed her a book.

"The Tales of Beetle the Bard," read Hermione.

"It's a bit young for you, granted," said Professor McGonagall. "But I thought it might interest you to know what sort of stories young witches and wizards grew up hearing."

"Thank you," said Hermione politely, flipping through, though she secretly couldn't imagine reading a book that was clearly meant for very little children.

"You may return to your common room," said Professor McGonagall. "If you have any difficulties or questions, do not hesitate to come to me."

"Thank you, Professor." Clutching the book to her chest, Hermione stood and hurried toward the door. She appreciated the offer for extra help, but knew she'd not be taking the Deputy Headmistress up on it. She could manage herself, after all.

She had books and cleverness.

What more could a girl need?

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September, 1997**

 **(the present)**

Just as there had been last year, there was dancing after dinner.

Just as he had been last year, Severus was expected to dance at least once with Hermione.

"You'll come to my chambers tonight, won't you, Professor?" Hermione asked earnestly, as he lead them around the floor.

He almost winced and was glad the music kept their words from being overheard. To the average person, it would sound like she was soliciting him. Or, at the very least, inviting him up for more than tea and biscuits.

Not that he would say no if that were the case.

"I will," he said. "I am interested in seeing your new work space. With a table large enough for two cauldrons, we could better brew the potions your fellow seventh years are working on perfecting for their N.E.W.T.s."

"How shall I sit my N.E.W.T.s if I'm not permitted to leave Malfoy Manor?" she asked.

"You were permitted leave earlier today, were you not?" He glanced down intending to take in her dress, which was similar to style and cut as the ones her mother wore, but he got an eye full of cleavage instead. He looked away. "Your mother mentioned a shopping excursion."

"Oh, yes, and that was wonderful." Hermione sounded almost dreamy. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. He never thought her to be the daft, mindless type to be enthralled by dress shopping. But then she added, "I was out in the sun for nearly two hours, in public, and unafraid. We passed a bakery and all I could smell was fresh bread. It took a bit of begging, but I convinced my mother to stop there on our way home, before apparating."

"Do they intend to teach you to apparate on your own?" He hoped she couldn't tell how sweaty the hand on her lower back was. This dress, though an exquisite shade of royal purple that suited her well, was entirely too form-fitting.

"I haven't asked. But my father is teaching me a number of new spells and hexes, for my own protection, of course."

"Your father," said Severus. He hadn't heard her so casually mention him in that way before. Her cheeks went pink.

"You know who I meant."

"I know who," he said. "You Know Who."

She giggled even though it wasn't that funny.

The music faded. Another song was starting. He would not object to another dance, frankly, but they managed only a few steps before her mother cut in.

"Don't let the Headmaster take up all of your time, Hermione," said Bellatrix. She was wearing a new dress, too, as form-fitting as her daughter's, but in black with silvery blue accents. He had to admit, she looked good, not that he liked to look at her. She was healthier than she'd been in Azkaban, that was clear, and she looked happier than he'd seen her in some time. Not that she ever quite looked happy when looking at him.

"Oh, it's alright, I was enjoy-"

"Dance with your grandfather, won't you? Just once. He needs a bit of leading these days, but he thinks you're Andromeda, so it'll make him happy. Father! Cygnus!" She waved him over. "Dance with your grand... with your... with..."

"Of course, yes, Andromeda, my favorite daughter." He took her hand.

"Again with that 'favorite daughter' nonsense," said Bellatrix, but she didn't look too put out. She turned and headed toward Narcissa, who was sort of swaying to the music with Lucius, quietly conversing.

"See you later?" mouthed Hermione over her grandfather's shoulder.

Severus nodded.

He would indeed see her later. When they could speak freely. Alone.

He was looking forward to it, despite knowing it may be a massive mistake. He wanted to see her chambers, to see the room in which they'd be working from now on. To see the table where they'd brew potions. To see the bookshelves she'd excitedly described.

To see the bedroom.

If nothing else, he still had to give her his gift.

And then, sure as his father was already there, he'd be headed straight to Hell.


	29. WRONG

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:**

 **WRONG**

 **1 October 1997**

 **(the present)**

Since Hermione had been gifted her own bedroom and sitting room and all those beautiful bookshelves, which she was now steadily filling, she hadn't had as much use for the Malfoy Manor library.

But last night, via owl, Professor Snape had set her a new assignment – writing an essay about the rise and 'attraction' of Grindewald – and she couldn't find what she needed on her shelves, so she hurried to peruse the library stacks. She was determined to do well, hoping he would come to the Manor to correct and discuss the assignment. She hadn't seen him in nearly a fortnight, since her birthday party (or, more accurately, her impromptu lesson that followed) and she found she missed him more than Fifth Year Muggleborn Hermione would have believed possible.

She'd finally found a tome that looked useful when the library door opened, and in swooped her aunt, Narcissa. Hermione hadn't seen Narcissa since the night of her eighteenth birthday party, either. The woman had gone back to the seclusion of her bed chambers, though she'd started letting Bellatrix in to talk, which Hermione's mother said she took as a sign the woman was getting better.

Narcissa entered the library with purpose, but after a few steps, she seemed to sense she wasn't alone. She paused, cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, and listened.

Hermione hugged Master of Manipulation: How Gellert Grindelwald Charmed a Generation to her chest and backed out of view, barely daring to breathe.

Narcissa shook her head like she must've imagined whatever she thought she saw or heard or sensed, and continued across the expansive room. She looked a bit better than she had the last time Hermione saw her, even though she wasn't all dressed up and wearing makeup now. Her face was bright and she appeared less gaunt. The dark circles remained under her eyes, but she didn't seem to be teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Her blonde hair was swept to the side in a long, low braid, her nails were painted shimmery gold, and she wore a simple rose-pink dress that went to the floor.

Hermione watched as her aunt went straight to the tall, thin bookcase to the left of the fireplace, the one with only fourteen titles on two shelves. This one, Hermione always skipped. These two shelves held only drab how-to books she couldn't imagine ever wanting to need, though she'd seen the titles enough times to have them memorized.

Baking Your Way Into His Heart

Dress Design with Charms & Needles

Pleasure _With_ Purity: The Power of Waiting

Planning the Perfect Wedding

A Witch's Guide to Satisfying her Wizard

Tips and Tricks for the Perfect Hostess

Holiday Décor in the Modern Wizarding World

Gestating an Heir: From Conception to Birth

Your Magical Baby and You

Raising Little Witches, Volume I

Raising Little Wizards, Volume I

Raising Little Wizards, Volume II

Passion & Parenting: Maintaining a Marriage while Mothering

Magical Schools of Europe: A Comparative Look

(Though Hermione would never admit it to anyone, she'd once flipped through the Pleasure _With_ Purity book. It was full of sex shaming diatribes by 'experts' and lists of reasons to 'wait,' but it also included diagrams and instructions about how to please a wizard without intercourse and how to stop him from taking things 'too far.' Someone, presumably a young Narcissa, had scribbled notes in the margins, which included doodling several hearts around the title of an article about oral sex. Hermione was too mortified by this to read anything more and hurriedly put the book back in its place.)

Seemingly unaware she was being watched, Narcissa took one of the heavy tomes off the shelf, carried it to the couch, and curled up, and began to read.

Hermione chewed her lip. How long was her aunt planning to stay in here? If she made her presence known now, it would seem like she was hiding out. But the alternative was… well… to hide out! Hermione peeked through the stacks, shifting from one foot to the other and impatiently waiting for her aunt to up and leave. After a few minutes, she was bored from standing there and sure Narcissa's departure would not be quickly forthcoming. She therefore decided, since she was in a library, she might as well read too. She quietly moved to a seated position, opened the book on Gellert Grindelwald, and was soon so absorbed in the text she almost forgot that her aunt was on the other side of the tall freestanding shelves.

Then, the door opened.

Hermione peered over the tops of the books on the shelf second from bottom. She recognized her uncle's white dragon hide boots.

"Here you are!" he said. He moved to the couch. Once he'd sat down, Hermione could see them both… if she craned her neck just right.

"Reading," said Narcissa. She showed the cover to Lucius. Hermione couldn't make it out from where she was.

"Why that one?" he asked. "Surely, you're not…"

"I don't know. Perhaps?" She sounded scared, but also maybe… excited? "I'm six weeks late."

Hermione stifled a gasp. Did that mean what she thought it did?

"Should we do the spell?" Lucius asked.

"I don't know," said Narcissa. "I don't know if I want to know."

Hermione couldn't see their faces without twisting rather painfully, so she settled for watching them from the chins down. Lucius turned his body toward his wife and pulled her to him. She placed the book in her lap and brought her hand up to the center of his chest, over his heart.

"I honestly don't know what I'm hoping for," Narcissa whispered. "I can't lose another one."

"We won't lose another one."

"How can you say that?" her voice trembled. "In under five years we suffered two miscarriages and one dead toddler. Three of our four babies, gone. And now, sixteen years later, we're in danger of losing our only son. I can't keep children alive, Lucius. I wanted to give you so many, remember? But I can't manage to-"

"None of that was your fault." Lucius pulled her half into his lap, cradling her upper body against his chest with her legs bent over his knees, almost as a parent would hold a child whose gotten too big to be rocked. "Diana's death was an accident. Miscarriages happen. And we won't lose our son."

"You don't know that."

"I promise you, I won't let anything happen to Draco. Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

Hermione felt a weird fluttering in the pit of her stomach. It was almost like… attraction. But that didn't make sense. Even if the couple weren't her aunt and uncle, she had no attraction to them. Still, this was the same fluttering feeling Severus Snape sometimes induced in her. She'd thought it was indicative of a developing crush. Maybe, instead, she was suffering some weird stomach ailment.

"Lucius, my love, while you were in Azkaban, Draco was in danger, and…"

"Narcissa, my love," he cut her off. "While I was in Azkaban, _you_ kept our son safe. It was _you_ who thought to go to Severus. It was _you_ who insisted he make the Unbreakable Vow. It was _you_ who both kept him from being killed, and kept him from becoming a murderer."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on the floor. Her legs had fallen asleep and gone tingly. And she felt guilty overhearing this conversation.

"I don't want our son to become a murderer," whispered Narcissa tearfully. "He's just a boy. A _good_ boy. Murder – it tears your soul in two. That's what Bella told me. She said it takes away a piece of you that you can never get back. I don't know how she can kill, knowing-"

"When the options are kill or be killed, you do what you have to," said Lucius, his voice taking on a hardened quality it hadn't had moments before.

"Not me," said Narcissa. "When they came to Malfoy Manor, when I was alone with Diana, they could have killed me, and I didn't… I didn't defend myself… or her… they took her… they tried to take her… if Severus hadn't come… if he hadn't saved her… and found me… but if they'd taken her… if they'd taken her… she'd still be alive!" She began to sob.

Hermione inched back to rest against the wall. She didn't need to see them through the stacks. She didn't want to witness this. She understood Narcissa's worries about Draco becoming a murderer, and she was suddenly concerned for her mother's soul… but at the same time…

At the same time…

Her wand hand twitched involuntarily, and a mental image flashed before her.

Torturing James Potter just as she had Rodolphus Lestrange. Making him suffer the way he and his friends made her aunt suffer. Torturing him into insanity like her mother did to Frank Longbottom.

Ending his life in a flash of green light.

She shook her head, trying to clear the picture. She'd had revenge fantasies before, since seeing that memory, and in increasing frequency since Harry had taken the story for the Quibbler… but this was the first time she saw herself using the Killing Curse, really saw it. Really felt like she could.

 _But you've killed already,_ a nasty little voice in the back of her mind reminded her. _That poor old House Elf. You Monster._

She'd killed before. And now, for the first time since, she was worried, if given the opportunity, she might kill again.

Lucius and Narcissa were still speaking quietly. Hermione tried to focus her attention back on them, and not on the pent up rage and guilt she'd been battling since the start of August.

"It might not be pregnancy," said Narcissa, talking through her tears. "I'm forty-two. It could be the climacteric."

"You're not old enough for the change," insisted Lucius. "My mother was in her late fifties. My grandmother was over sixty."

"Sometimes it happens earlier," said Narcissa. "Sometimes…"

"We'll do the spell," said Lucius. "Tonight. I'll have a House Elf bring a rabbit to the master bath. We'll do it there."

Hermione didn't understand why they'd need a rabbit to do this spell – maybe witches were unaware that women these days could simply pee on a stick – but she was disappointed it would be done out of sight. It wasn't as if she could ask her aunt about it later. Not without revealing she'd been eavesdropping.

"If it's positive, Lucius… if it's… if we're… do you even want…?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"I asked you first."

Hermione, unable to help herself, peeked out again. Narcissa was stroking Lucius' cheek. It looked as though he hadn't shaved in a few days. He had his hand on her thigh and was moving his thumb in little circles.

Though this was hardly a scene from her mother's erotica novels, Hermione couldn't help feeling like she was witnessing romance. No, not romance, exactly.

But a different kind of love.

Not a kind she'd known yet. Not a kind she could imagine herself having ever known with those silly boys she'd once fancied, Viktor Krum and Ronald Weasley. Not even the kind she fantasized about when she couldn't sleep, when she let dirty daydreams of her private tutor get her so excited she worried someone would hear her moans and sighs from the hall.

"We were stupid to have two babies in the middle of the last war," said Narcissa finally. "But I loved being young and stupid with you."

"I would never pressure you for another child, my lotus blossom." He pressed his lips to the spot just below her ear. "But if you are, and if you want this, I want it."

Narcissa pulled him into a kiss, long, not chaste, but not messy. When they parted, he smiled.

"When I was in Azkaban, I was tormented by worries about what might be happening to you, but when I needed to keep myself sane, when I needed to fight the darkness of the Dementors, I closed my eyes and imagined you kissing me exactly like that."

Hermione leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She wished she could talk to Ginny. The saucy ginger would not believe what a closet romantic Lucius Malfoy was in private, when he thought he and his wife were alone. She wondered if even Draco knew. He'd mentioned, of course, that the two had an embarrassingly physically passionate past – he joked of the immense trauma of having walked in on them 'hugging' in bed when he was four – but this wasn't that. And, Hermione imagined, it wasn't something her mother had ever experienced with her father. Surely, a man who treated his wife like this never left her face bruised, or her heart broken.

This time, the feeling in Hermione's stomach was a sharp pang.

After her 'lesson' the night of her birthday, Severus Snape had rushed out of her room, apologizing and shaking his head. Thus far he hadn't returned.

"Do you remember when we were expecting Diana?" asked Narcissa. "The first time you felt her kick inside me? You couldn't stop singing."

He laughed. "Singing made her kick."

"She loved to dance. She loved her daddy. She lit up when you entered the room."

Hermione peered through the stacks again, craning to see their faces. Lucius was gently wiping tears from his wife's cheeks. She was smiling shakily back at him.

"She was beautiful," he said. "She looked like you."

"She had your eyes," said Narcissa.

"And your smile," he said.

"Sometimes, I hate Bellatrix."

Hermione's mouth dropped. While her aunt often changed the subject abruptly mid-conversation, this seemed to come especially out of nowhere.

"Why?" asked Lucius, who also appeared to be confused.

Narcissa's expression hardened. She didn't meet her husband's eyes. "Bella thought her daughter was dead, but she wasn't. She got her back." As quickly as it had overtaken her face, Narcissa softened again. Then she sniffled. "I hate her because she got hers back and I won't get mine back."

"You don't hate her for that," said Lucius.

"I do!" insisted Narcissa. "I _do_. I hate her because _she_ gets a second chance."

"Perhaps we'll get a second chance." He rested his hand on her midsection. "If you're not now… we could start trying."

"Is that what you want?" asked Narcissa.

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but the library door swung open, and in charged Bellatrix.

"Have you seen Hermione? I can't find her."

"I haven't," said Narcissa.

"Nor have I," said Lucius.

Hermione pressed her back against the wall and tried to use what little she knew of Occlumency to close her mind to her mother.

Bellatrix let out a little grunt of frustration. "The pool, perhaps. I'll look there. If you see her, send her to me."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 October, 1967**

 **(30 years ago)**

Sixth year Bellatrix Black had never been asked to do anything with a boy before, save for being asked by Tobias Nott to step out of the way at the last Yule Ball so he could ask Calpurnia Welsh to dance. She'd never held the hand of a boy or been kissed, not even on the cheek, she'd never been on a date – not that her parents would allow her to date, as she was already promised to Rodolphus Lestrange – and she'd never been the object of one's desires. The only cards she received on Valentine's Day were from her two sisters, who didn't want her to feel left out.

But since the start of the school year not three weeks ago, she'd been receiving letters from a Secret Admirer, and though she didn't know who he was, it felt… good.

She attributed this sudden attention to a couple of her new features… over the summer, after years of being one of the flattest chested girls her age, she'd suddenly gone from an A cup to a C, and she was sure the boys in her House had noticed. Her dormmates sure had.

"Did you do some sort of expansion charm on your tits?" asked one of the girls.

"Or do you stuff your bra?" asked another.

"Sod off, both of you," Bellatrix had said. But she was secretly pleased. Even though in her rational mind knew she was the same person she'd been two months earlier, she liked the newfound femininity having developed a bit more brought. She filled out her uniform shirt and jumper better and she thought it made her look older. She was always trying to look older. She hated being a child, so the quicker she could reach adulthood, the better.

Because she'd never been asked to do anything with a boy before, she was through the moon thanks to her secret admirer's latest letter, which requested she meet him in the astronomy tower at midnight exactly.

"Don't go," said Andromeda, fourteen. "It'll end in disaster."

"Go!" said Narcissa, twelve. "It'll be so romantic!"

"It won't be," said Andromeda. She slipped a cigarette out of the tiny pouch she kept on her hip.

"Don't you dare light that in here!" Bellatrix, though a rule breaker herself, was also a prefect, and she was not going to allow anyone – least of her, her little sister – disobey such a massive rule right in front of her.

"You ought to light one," said Andromeda, holding it out. "You'd be less tense."

"Mummy doesn't like the way they smell," said Narcissa, her little nose pointed in the air. "And neither do I."

"Give that here." Bellatrix took the cigarette from Andromeda and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. "You're lucky Cissy won't tattle on you."

Andromeda rolled her eyes dramatically, then pulled out a second one. "Mummy doesn't control me. No one does." She lit the end of the cigarette with her wand, put it in her mouth, and took a long drag.

Bellatrix hit her in the face with a stream of water via a nonverbal 'Aquamenti.' Andromeda swore, threw her soggy cigarette on the common room floor, and stormed off toward her dorm.

"Why do you antagonize her?" asked Narcissa.

"Why does she antagonize me?" countered Bellatrix. "She knows better than to smoke in here. If Slughorn caught her…"

"He never comes in here," said Narcissa.

"That's not the point." Bellatrix sighed and sat back in her chair. "I should go, shouldn't I?"

"Yes," said Narcissa, starry-eyed. "Who knows? Perhaps you'll meet the love of your life!"

"Rodolphus will be the 'love of my life.' I'm not allowed to fall for anyone else, remember?" Bellatrix sighed again. She'd met Lestrange several times now and while she didn't hate him, she couldn't see herself falling for him, either. They had nothing beyond ideology in common. He didn't enjoy Wizard Rock or chocolate sweets or ballroom dancing, he had no interest in fiction or theatre or swimming, and he called her 'little girl' in a patronizing way.

His family did own several horses though. She hoped to be allowed to ride one someday. Mother didn't allow equestrian sports because of her own negative history with the animals, but Bella saw them as less magical unicorns.

Narcissa went up to bed around ten and the common room cleared out completely by eleven fifteen. For thirty minutes, Bellatrix paced the length of the room. With fifteen minutes to go, she hurried out and up toward the astronomy tower.

An hour later, she was back in her bed.

Sobbing.

A hand touched her back. She jumped.

"Just me," whispered Andromeda. "I'm sorry."

"How did you know?" whispered Bellatrix. She rolled over to face her sister in the dark, wiping tears from her eyes at the same time.

"I didn't know," said Andromeda. "But I had a feeling." She climbed under the covers with her sister before continuing in a whisper so low, Bella had to strain to hear her. "Sometimes, Bella… I have these… _feelings_. And I… it's as if I see… or get a sense of… a flash of… things. I knew you'd end up crying tonight. But I didn't know _why_."

"I should have listened to you." Bellatrix snuggled against her sister and squeezed her eyes shut tight. More tears eked out. "I should have known better. No one will ever want me. Not like that."

"At least you have a marriage arranged," said Andromeda, stroking her hair. "All mine have fallen through, remember? But not yours. He's met you and his parents have met you and they've all approved and no one seems to be changing their minds."

"Yes. I'll be Mrs. Rodolphus Lestrange. Brilliant."

"It's _something_ ," whispered Andromeda. "The one thing I've never seen flashes of is my own future. At least you know you can expect not to be alone in yours."

"It's _something_ ," echoed Bellatrix. She thought about the heroines in the thrilling romance novels she loved so much, the ones whose lives were full of mystery and drama and lust, each with a happy ever after. "But it's not enough."

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 October 1997**

 **(the present)**

Severus Snape was glad being Headmaster meant he no longer had to grade paper or teach pupils, but he didn't enjoy all of the ridiculous day-to-day discussions with professors about the most inane…

"Headmaster!" Someone banged on his door. "Headmaster?" Sounded like Amycus Carrow.

"Enter," said Severus, lazily waving his wand to let the man in.

"Caught these two putting up signs in the hall." Amycus dragged Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott into the headmaster's office by the back of their collars.

"Signs?" asked Severus.

"Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting!" Neville answered boldly, looking braver than Snape had ever seen him.

"Leave them to me," said Severus.

"Sign off on the Cruciatus, won't you? Let them experience it, let them see what happens to-"

"Thank you, Carrow, that will be all." Severus motioned toward the door. Looking thoroughly put out, Amycus exited. "Accio posters."

Several rolled up pieces of parchment flew out of the pockets of Longbottom and Abbott's robes and toward him. He spread one out on the desk.

"Is this supposed to resemble me?" he asked.

It was a hideous painting of a gaunt hook-nosed man in ill-fitting robes, sneering down at children wearing the colors of three of Hogwarts' four Houses.

"Recognize yourself, do you?" asked Longbottom.

"You've not captured my facial expression well at all," admonished Severus. "My eyes do not cross, nor do I curl the bottom of my lip."

"That was an accident," said Abbott. "My quill slipped." She clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oops."

"I hope you are a better Herbologist than you are a painter, Miss Abbott." Using his wand, he set fire to the parchments, burning all of them, then Vanished the ashes. "It is nearly time for supper. Hurry along to the Great Hall. Eat as much as you can so you have a happy memory to reflect upon when living the life of a starving artist in the future."

Hannah Abbott gave him a very queer look, but she hurried toward the door. Neville Longbottom moved to follow.

"Not you, Mr. Longbottom. You take a seat. Miss Abbott can save you a place at the Hufflepuff table, should you decide to abandon your House for hers."

"I'll be alright," Longbottom assured the girl. "Go on without me."

She looked uneasy, but did as directed. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Mr. Longbottom," Severus started.

"Snape," came the disrespectful reply.

"Sit."

The boy obeyed, though he was shooting daggers at Severus with his eyes as he did so.

"You are making my life rather difficult at the moment, Longbottom."

"I don't much care about making your life easy," said Longbottom. "Where's Hermione? What are they doing to her? She's been brainwashed."

"Not at all." Severus sat back in his seat and tented his fingers. "She's been… illuminated."

"She thinks my father and Harry's were rapists. She told that lie to Harry and he told it to the Quibbler and now half the wizarding world thinks my dad-"

Severus sneered.

"Your mother was a lovely person, Longbottom. Your father, on the other hand, was every bit the monster Granger described to Potter. It's unfortunate you had to learn about it the way you did."

"It's rubbish, that's what it is! My gran told me–"

"Told you what? That your father wouldn't hurt a fly? I was there, Longbottom. I arrived as they were leaving. I saw…" He cut himself off. He didn't owe the boy anything, and it wasn't as though the truth mattered. Not in this moment. He switched gears. "You are going to get yourself into trouble, Longbottom. The Carrows are itching to start using the Cruciatus on students who prove to be behavior problems. When you act out, you not only cause trouble for the staff, you interrupt the educational process of others, which we simply cannot have. You'll therefore obey the rules of this school or you will be asked to leave this school. Do you understand?"

"I'm not afraid of you, Snape. Not anymore."

"Aren't you?" Severus stood, picked up his wand, and pointed it in Longbottom's direction. "It is fortunate – for you – that you look like your mother. I wonder if Frank really was your father. Alice was a lovely woman, but she had a bit of a… reputation."

"Don't talk about my mother!" Longbottom pulled out his wand, too, pointing it directly at the Headmaster.

"Hermione's mother landed in Azkaban because she tortured your parents for information. Your mother never had to torture anyone for information. She got what she needed in exchange for the liberal use of her-"

He almost didn't manage to deflect the Stunner sent his way.

"You lot have learned precious little about the first war," said Severus. "Much to your detriment. That was the fault of your parents, grandparents, and professors. Granger suffered as much from that willful ignorance as the rest of you, but now that she's safely where she belongs, she's learning the truth."

"That's not the truth!" said Longbottom. "That's not the truth about my mother and it's not the truth about my father!"

"It may not be the truth about your mother," said Severus. He sat back down and drummed his fingertips on the desk. "Rumors spread like Fiendfyre and, while there is typically a kernel of truth, they can devolve into the rather absurd. But what your father was accused of having done to Draco Malfoy's mother? That is unquestionable fact." Severus shrugged. "If he really was your father, that is."

"And Hermione's father, it's really You Know Who?" asked Longbottom. He still looked furious, but Severus was confident another hex wouldn't be heading his way. His words had shaken the boy as much as they'd angered him, and he knew why – as much as Longbottom wanted to believe his father would never do such a thing, the fact was, he didn't know the man at all. He couldn't remember him before his mind was addled. And it killed him.

"She is indeed the daughter of the Dark Lord," said Severus. "And Bellatrix Lestrange. Does that change your opinion of her?"

"Of Bellatrix?" asked Longbottom. "Not at all. I still think she's a mad old monster who-"

"Of Hermione Granger," clarified Severus. "Hermione Black. Does knowing who her parents are change the way you view her?"

"I…" Longbottom's wand dipped slightly. He appeared conflicted. "She was my friend."

"She was, yes."

"I don't know what to think."

"That, Longbottom, is the most honest thing you've said today, and also the most accurate. You don't know what to think because you do not have all the necessary information. You don't know enough about the past to even begin comprehending the present. You are lost." Severus tutted pityingly. "I'll not permit Carrow's use of the Cruciatus against you for putting up these signs – not this time – but I'm going to need you to view a certain memory of mine, then write me a three foot essay on why we should not glorify the actions and tout the character of people we truly know nothing about. You'll return tonight at eight, sharp."

"View a memory?"

'You shall see. Go. Join Miss Abbott. Enjoy your chicken or fish or whatever it is the elves are serving tonight. Eight sharp. Be here, or I'll put you at the mercy of the Carrows tomorrow."

Longbottom hurried out faster than Abbott had, and Severus quickly summoned over a bottle of firewhisky and a small glass.

"You're not going to show Narcissa's memory to the boy," said Dumbledore, the painting of Dumbledore, behind him.

"No. Only mine. Part of mine. He'll see them fleeing Malfoy Manor with the baby, see Narcissa battered on the floor. He'll come to his own conclusions."

"Why?" asked Dumbledore.

"I knew what a nasty, worthless person my father was." Severus downed the glass in two gulps and poured more. "Why should Potter and Longbottom be allowed to blissfully believe their deplorable fathers were heroes?"

"This seems immature, Severus," said the old man, the painting of the old man, gently.

"I'm immature, then." Severus gulped down the second glass, sent the bottle back to its shelf, and headed into his sitting room. He'd been in a bad mood since Hermione's birthday, since he'd lost control and nearly… his face went hot remembering it. What the fuck was wrong with him? She was an eighteen year old prisoner, his former student. His _current_ student, really. Daughter of his master and that mad cow, Bellatrix. It had been bad enough fucking Tonks when she was young and willing and already experienced. It would be a thousand times worse to take advantage of Hermione, who was already suffering from the continuous manipulation of everyone around her and didn't seem to know who she was anymore.

He was glad he'd stopped it before it had gone too far. Before he'd gone too far.

But he didn't trust himself to do so the next time, should it happen again. And so he'd been sending her assignments via Owl for the last twelve days, avoiding having to leave Hogwarts for any reason, citing the attempted mutiny of several students (led by Longbottom, he suspected) as an excuse to keep in the castle.

It wouldn't work much longer. She wrote every other day, asking when he'd return. Even the Dark Lord was growing impatient with him, as his daughter's education had suddenly become one of his top priorities, after immortality, finding Potter, and quashing the last of the rebellions. Severus couldn't avoid Hermione forever.

But he could try.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September 1997**

 **(twelve days ago)**

Hermione seemed to be utterly delighted to show Professor Snape her new chambers. She started with the sitting room, of course, with the bookshelves and the table for potions and the new pewter cauldron and the various vials and knives and ladles, everything she could need to brew. She then dragged him into the bedroom, explaining that he'd want to know where to find the loo should he have need for it. She showed him the photographs, Crookshanks' space, the new wardrobe full of clothes she and her mother had shopped for that afternoon, and more books. And the bed.

"It's massive!" she said. "And very comfortable!"

"I shall have to take your word for it," he said.

"Oh, right. Sorry. I only… I meant… I didn't… it's nice, that's all."

"Quite nice," he agreed. "Let us return to the main room to begin your lesson."

"Yes, please!" She pushed past him, leading the way, brushing against him as she did so. He tried not to notice how well the bodice of her dress fit, or how delectable she smelled, or how much she seemed to have matured as of late.

Before they cracked open a textbook, he said he had a gift for her. Her face lit up.

"Two gifts, really," he said. He reached into his pocket and took out two items the size of thimbles, which he then re-transfigured to their original sizes. The first, the practical one, was a brand new scale, ideal for measuring even the most minute amounts of ingredients necessary for precise potions brewing. She thanked him, hurriedly put it with her other potions things, and sat back down on the couch beside him.

The second gift was, unsurprisingly, a book.

She took it from him excitedly and read the title.

"European Witches Who Made History!" She flipped to the chapter breakdown and ran her finger down the list, excited whenever she recognized a witch. "Oh, yes, she was the first witch admitted to the Auror training program! Oh, and she was the first woman to serve as Minister for Magic! Oh! Oh! And she was the first female Healer and later Hogwarts Headmistress! I read about her in Hogwarts, a History!"

He tapped one of the names. "This entry may interest you."

"Cassiopeia Black," Hermione read aloud. "A relative?"

"Your great-grandfather's younger sister. She was a beautiful, vain woman, a powerful witch, and, allegedly, the Seer who foretold the rise of Grindelwald when she was only eleven years old. The prophecy she gave was one of many destroyed during that little incident at the Ministry."

"I don't think I believe in Seers," said Hermione, but he could tell she was itching to start reading.

"And this one." He tapped another name. "Catherine Monvoisin. She lived in France in the 1600s and was known for practicing the Muggle art of medicine. She made potions and poisons and provided desperate women with the abortions they sought. The Muggles burned her to death."

"Oh!" Hermione shuddered. "How awful."

"She was one of your ancestors on the Rosier side, traced back entirely through the maternal line. She is often cited as one of the reasons the wizarding world had to go underground. The Muggles adored and appreciated her for all she could do for them, until witchcraft fell out of favor with both the general public and, her frequent clients, the aristocracy. When she was no longer useful to them – when they were no longer interested in using her – she was disposed of."

"It killed her then?" asked Hermione. "Being burned? But I thought-"

"According to her chapter, it destroyed her spirit, killing her in a sense, but leaving the shell of her body behind. Read it."

"I will!"

"And this one." He tapped one other name. "Isobel Gaunt, the first registered Animagus, and quite possibly the first person, witch or wizard, to ever transform willingly into an animal. She was the great-great-great-grandmother of your father's great-great-grandfather. She was a lizard with first transformation documented in 1745."

"A lizard?" Hermione looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or show pity. "What a useless animal."

"Better than the one your mother managed," he couldn't help replying, but this was a mistake, because Hermione immediately began to pepper him with questions about that, which he'd been forbidden by the Dark Lord to discuss.

"You shall have to ask her."

"I'd like to become an Animagus," she said. "I'd hope to be a cat, like Professor McGonagall, or perhaps a dog, a rabbit, or a bird. Something that can move about largely unobtrusively, but nothing small as a bumblebee or dull as a toad."

"If you would like the beginning lessons relating to that added to your advances Transfiguration curriculum, I will discuss it with your father, and provided he approves that can be arranged."

"Wonderful! Thank you!" She threw her arms around him in a hug and he froze.

Then she pulled back slightly, wet her glossy lips with her tongue, and pressed them to his.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **1 October 1997**

 **(the present)**

Bellatrix was having a good day.

She awoke early to find the Dark Lord's body curled around hers. When they first started spending the night together, he tried to avoid this, and would be visibly annoyed in the morning if he opened his eyes to find he'd sought her ought in the middle of the night. Since his resurrection and her prison escape, though they'd been sharing a bed more than ever before, this accidental spooning almost never happened.

But this morning, it did, and better still, when he opened his eyes and realized it, rather than pushing her away or hurrying from the bed to shower, he pulled her even closer, thrusting his erection against her arse, and flicked his tongue against the back of her neck.

His left hand briefly squeezed at her breast, then slipped down between her legs. She grinded against him shamelessly as his fingers danced over her clit through the thin fabric of her knickers.

"You're wet for me," he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"I want to watch you touch yourself, then you'll suck my cock until I come in your mouth. You'll swallow."

She felt a tightening from her lower belly to her groin and a fluttering in her chest. He so rarely spoke dirty to her, especially these days, and she moaned at the mere thought of obliging.

"Won't you fuck me with your fingers, my Lord?" she asked, as one of his long digits slipped between the fabric and her skin.

"I'll fuck your mouth," he said. "Remove your nightdress."

She missed the warmth of his body when he pulled away from her, but she didn't say as much. Instead, she threw back the blankets, removed her nightdress, and let her thumb encircle her nipple, her eyes not leaving his. "You want my knickers on or off?"

"Start with them on." He summoned over a chair, transfigured it into a tall barstool, and sat upon it, one foot still flat on the floor. She bit her lip as he exposed himself to her, and slid her fingers down into her knickers as he took his length in his hand.

Though she knelt before him and began sucking when ordered to, not even a minute passed before he yanked her up by the arm, turned her around, bent her over against the end of the bed, and fucked her until she climaxed, which brought on his own orgasm.

He bent closer to her, bit her neck, then spoke directly into her ear.

"You belong to me, Bellatrix. I own you. You are mine."

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered, heady and tired and sated. "I'm yours. I belong to you. You own me."

But for the first time, instead of bringing her comfort, these words filled her with unease.

 **-0-0-0-**

 **19 September 1997**

 **(twelve days ago)**

She didn't know what made her do it, the excitement of the day, perhaps. Having her own chambers, having this book about famous witches which included three of her own relatives, having had an excellent lesson that morning, having enjoyed the food and the dancing and, if she was being honest, the champagne…

But after hugging him to show her gratitude for his gifts, she pulled back, and looked into his eyes, and her stomach fluttered as it had been doing with some frequency as of late, and without giving a single rational thought to what she was about to do, she pressed her lips to his.

And, after the briefest awkward moment, he responded.

His right hand entangled itself into her perfectly coiffed hair. His left found her hip. His tongue found hers.

And before she could process what was happening, she was reclining onto her back, pulling him with her, kissing him hard and sloppily and desperately and with almost enough enthusiasm to make up for her lack of experience.

He groaned as she shifted her weight under him, and he didn't resist when she brought his hand up to her breast. He grasped at her breast, kneading it, needing her, and then brought his mouth down to taste the soft flesh spilling from the top of her corset.

"Please," she whispered, but she didn't know quite what she was pleading for.

"Fuck," he groaned. His tongue flicked under the material of her corset, just touching the hard pink bud in the center of her areola. She shifted again. She wanted her legs on either side of his hips, but the dress would not allow for that. He yanked down hard on the front of her top, granting him access to more of her breast, and returned his tongue to it.

She felt frantic, dizzy, excited and confused. She wanted him to suck her there, just as the wizard did to the witch in the erotic thriller she read recently.

"Please…" she said again. "Yes… please…" (She was careful not to call him 'professor.')

He yanked again at her top, finally exposing her nipple, and just as she'd fantasized about, he took it into his mouth.

Now it was her hand that went to the back of his head. She arched her back and moaned. He was not gentle. She didn't need him to be.

His tongue laved back and forth, flicked over the hard pebble, and then he took it in his mouth again, sucking harder. The buildup of pressure between her legs was overwhelming. She wanted to be touched there, too. She wanted everything.

He moved against her and she could feel his hardness against her thigh. The only man she'd ever touched there before was Viktor, and she hadn't used her hand. She'd once straddled his lap while they were kissing, and she'd felt him poking through his trousers, and she'd curiously grinded against him, which he'd seemed to enjoy until he suddenly stopped her and rushed away.

But this man was not rushing away.

She touched him tentatively and he hissed. She drew her hand back, but when his mouth went back to her breast, she placed her hand over him again. She began to rub him through the fabric. He groaned, then growled, and thrust against her.

Then, as suddenly as the moment began, it was over. He swore, stood up, and adjusted his frock coat. He glared down at her for a moment. Her breast was still exposed, her lips were tingling and puffy, and her chest was heaving.

"This is wrong," he said, his eyes dark and narrowed and furious. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's wrong."

Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Thank you for your patience and for your kind words! I can't tell you how much I appreciate the responses and the understanding. I was so worried readers would be annoyed by the replaced chapters with limited new content when there hadn't been a new chapter in so long.

The witch ancestors of Hermione are based on real people - Catherine "la voisin" Monvoisin really practiced witchcraft and gave abortion and was burned as a witch, and Isobel Gaunt is based loosely on a different witch named Isabel Gowdy, who said she and her coven could turn into animals at will. Cassiopeia Black is from the Black Family Tree; aside from her birth/death years, little is known about her.

Thanks again!

 **-AL**


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